


Homecoming

by Minoukatze



Category: Vermintide, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: AU, Angst, Delicious baked goods, F/M, Fluff, Giant rats, Small Town Mystery, The Ubersreik Five Get a Happy Ending Dammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 45,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minoukatze/pseuds/Minoukatze
Summary: The Apocalypse has been cancelled as Tsarina Katerina ices Archaon because, honestly, screw that guy. Anyway...Victor Saltzpyre and the rest of the Ubersreik Five are summoned to sleepy Senden to investigate hints of a familiar menace. What they find there is corruption seething beneath the surface, a plot which threatens the town's existence, and a past which Victor desperately wants to leave behind.





	1. Of Stone Walls and Cramped Smithies

There were stone walls now. He’d remembered it mentioned in one of Johann’s letters, but he’d never actually considered the reality of their existence. But there they were, stone, rough and unevenly mortared, replacing lashed old and rotting timber beams. It was an upgrade that had been necessary since well before Victor’s time, but, despite many attempts to convince the people to do so, the town had clung to their old wooden defenses. They had been carved, you see. Sigils first; then, after a few decades, entreaties to the gods for mercy; then, finally, graffiti: declarations of love, obscene doodles, and simply names, crudely carved and probably misspelled names of people who wanted to stamp themselves upon something that would outlive them. Victor himself had added a mark to the wall in his youth, a rough approximation of a hammer of Sigmar, a prayer for his god to protect this humble satellite town. When he’d proudly told his mother, she’d given him a nasty set of stripes for the offense, then a treat, a slice of rye bread. She understood his motives, but vandalism was a crime.

It was a rare moment of rebellion that Victor refused to feel shame. He was representing his god, and his stinging back had been proof of his devotion. Sigmar appreciates pain, after all.

There were few such attempts at vandalism on this new wall, however. Someone had attempted to scrawl a skull upon one of the flatter stones, but the surfaces were too small and uneven for any further creativity. Victor was surprised that he’d missed them, though the stone would prove to be a much better against any offenders. It was better this way.

“All right, Sir?” Markus brought Victor back to the present, the others riding up beside him to regard the witch hunter curiously.

“Yes, just regarding the defenses,” Victor replied loftily. “I suppose they are sufficient. Come along.”

The gates were open, and the five rode into the bustling town. Activity halted immediately. Victor expected this, they were a motley crew, after all. Even if it were just he arriving, though, he was confident that the reaction would be the same. He raised his chin and ignored the townsfolk, basking in their open stares as he led the group to the inn within easy sight. A dark-haired, skinny man in his mid-forties met them at the door.

“Innkeeper,” Victor barked. “My comrades will need accommodation. Four rooms, and care for the horses.”

“Wait,” Sienna interrupted. “Only four? Cheaping out on us? Or do you have other plans…”

“Mind out of the gutter, Witch,” Victor grumbled. “I will, of course, be staying in the chapterhouse. Unless any of you would prefer a room there. I can assure you that you would not find it nearly as comfortable.”

Sienna shuddered. “Fair enough. As long as there are spirits here, I’m happy.”

The innkeeper eyed Sienna suspiciously. “I will be requiring a deposit.”

Sienna reached over stroked the innkeeper’s beard. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be on my best behavior.”

As the innkeeper blushed, Markus stepped forward. “My horse threw a shoe just outside of town. Can your hostler take care of it?”

“Out of shoes at the moment, but the blacksmith should have some available. I will send the stableboy to retrieve-“

“No need,” Victor interrupted. “I do not wish extra fees tacked on to our stay. I will purchase the shoe directly and bring it back for application. At the moment, please get my crew outfitted and comfortable.”

Markus jogged to keep up, side-eyeing Victor as they departed up the cobblestone path. “Was that necessary, Sir?”

It really wasn’t, and it was frankly strange for a Witch Hunter Captain to be running errands more suited to a stableboy. In any other town, he would have just paid the few pennies extra for the shoe and be done with it. It didn’t matter. He wanted the excuse to see the smithy. He’d have preferred to be alone in this visit, but he could not think of any decent excuses to shake the soldier.

When Victor did not answer, Markus continued. “Shouldn’t we ask for directions?”

“I know the way,” Victor responded, not slackening his pace.

“Ah, so you’ve been here before?”

“Obviously.”

Everything seemed so much smaller now. The buildings, which had seemed to be massive and indestructible when he had gone, now appeared cramped and shabby. There were few faces that he recognized. The ones he did were ancient and did not seem to know him. They all responded to the uniform, though. There was ample satisfaction in that.

They turned the corner, and Victor froze. There it was. If the town hall had seemed cramped, Victor’s childhood home was positively tiny. He nearly gasped at the sight of it. A small carved skull of Morr adorned one corner of the threshold, a hammer of Sigmar, the other. A variety of weapons, not quite his father’s quality, but still excellent; were hung on a display rack outside. The forge was lit, but unattended for the moment. _I have seen the view from Altdorf’s highest spires and delved into Nuln’s most profound depths. I have explored our great Empire to every border, dined with Counts, knelt before the Emperor and the Grand Theogonist both. I have slain legions of ratmen and rotbloods, drove my rapier through the curdled hearts of fiends, Grey Seers, and Daemon Lords alike. I am a scourge upon the enemies of Sigmar…and it all started here._

A chunky, sandy-haired boy of about 11 exited the house and headed straight to the forge. He noticed Victor and Markus, and shrunk back, eyes wide.

“….Daaaad?” The boy called nervously, and a burly man in his forties with the same fluffy, sandy hair came out.

“Welcome!” The blacksmith smiled broadly and extended his hand. “Always glad to serve members of the Order. Do not fear, Hermann, these men serve the Empire.”

“Hermann?” Victor raised his eyebrow.

The blacksmith peered at Victor more closely.

“By Sigmar…it’s uncanny,” the blacksmith murmured. “You’re Victor, aren’t you? Gods, it’s wonderful to meet you! Your father was so proud. Talked about you every day.”

“ _Father?_ ” Markus asked. “Sir, this is your hometown, isn’t it?”

“Obviously,” Victor grumbled, then addressed the blacksmith. “Well, that is good to hear. My man here needs a horseshoe. Do you have any available?”

“Of course!” The blacksmith replied sunnily, ignoring Victor’s brusque tone. “No!” He waved at Victor, who was reaching into his money purse. “You pay for nothing here. Why don’t you come in, have a drink?”

“I’m afraid I must-“ Victor began.

“Oh, come, Sir! Your old home, surely you want to see it after all these years?” Markus cajoled. “I would give my eyeteeth to see my old homestead again.”

“No time, Kruber,” Victor clenched his teeth in irritation. “Captain Weber is expecting me, and I cannot keep him waiting.” Victor turned to the obnoxiously cheery blacksmith. “I thank you for your invitation, but it is imperative that I move on. Good day.”

“Sir, really?” Markus jogged to keep up with Victor as the witch hunter charged up the path. “We couldn’t stay for just a moment?”

“Perhaps you have time to tarry,” Victor snarled, not slackening his pace. “But I have no such luxury. See to your horse, Kruber. I meet with the Captain on my own. That is an order.”

Markus finally fell back, muttering all the while. Victor heaved a relieved sigh as he continued his path uphill, his feet reflexively taking him on long-remembered paths on streets now barely recognizable. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if the ground were shifting beneath him. He turned a corner and was suddenly enveloped by the aroma of bread baking. It halted him immediately, and Victor grimaced. Curiosity (and spite) warred with duty, and for once the former won. _Weber can wait a few moments_ , he thought, and strode toward the bakery.


	2. Rye and Sadness

As the scent became stronger, it seemed to Victor that this little corner of the town was distinctly more familiar, more preserved than the rest. A clutch of giggling children scattered at his approach, and an old woman crossed herself while bowing and backed into her house. Victor liked that. Their reactions put an extra spring in his step as he neared the bakery. In the open window, he could spy a portly woman about his own age kneading a pillow of dough. Victor was taken aback in spite of himself. Even after over forty years, he would know her. Walburga smiled as she pummeled the dough, dimples flaring in her plump cheeks, a weft of wheat-colored hair bouncing against her brow as she worked. She was dressed rather shabbily, Victor was pleased to note, and the years had not been kind. Her linen blouse was threadbare and patched, and the laces of her frayed wool overdress had been knotted and retied in several places. She still had that sunny glow, though, _even now_ , he noticed grumpily. _Well_ , Victor thought smugly, _it clearly shows how simple she must be to be content in such a small, pathetic life_.

A scrawny preteen girl bustled through the open door of the kitchen to the stall adjacent laden with several varied and fragrant loaves. Victor’s mouth watered, and he frowned as he stepped forward. Upon seeing him, the girl panicked and dumped the bread haphazardly onto the display.

“S-s-sorry, Sir,” the girl stammered. “H-how may I h-help you?”

Victor smirked. “Oh, I have merely come to inspect the wares. I’d most recently sampled a satisfactory rosemary and olive bread in Carroburg en route to this backwater hamlet, but I suppose you will not have anything like that.”

Walburga’s head snapped up from her work to see him, and a broad smile spread across her face. She brushed her flour-dusted hands upon her apron and bustled outside.

“Go finish the dough, Karin,” Walburga instructed, and the relieved girl scampered inside as fast as her feet would carry her.

“As I live and breathe!” Walburga beamed, her green eyes sparkling. “If it isn’t Victor Saltzpyre. By Sigmar, look how fine you’ve become! I’d heard so many tales of your adventures from the Captain. You’ll have to tell me what is true. I never thought I would see you returning to our little town. How are you?”

Victor was unprepared for this reaction to his presence. For a moment he was once again a gawky adolescent struck dumb by the cheerful, lushly pretty baker’s daughter. He shook his head irritably and raised his chin.

“You seem to remember me, Madam, but I fear that I have no such recollection of you,” Victor lied. “Who are you, again?”

“Oh, I’m not surprised,” Walburga replied, beginning to straighten the scattered loaves. “The life you must’ve led, I can’t imagine you’d remember much about this place, and I must look a shade different from last you saw me.” She chuckled sadly. “I guess it makes my apology easier too, since what I did must not have made much of a dent. We were friends once, Victor, and when Gilbert lied about you peeping on me at the stream I should have believed you. I didn’t, and I should have. You’d never been anything less than a good friend to me, and I turned my back and I’m sorry. I’ve been waiting to say that for forty-four years, and I am glad to do it.”

Victor remembered it like it was yesterday. Him begging in this very spot for understanding and forgiveness, and what had felt like the entire town turning to look upon him with scorn. Walburga hurt and defensive; Gilbert, the Burgher’s son, smug and mocking. The afternoon ended with Victor almost disfiguring Gilbert and very nearly imprisoned, save for the intervention of the Witch Hunter Captain with whom he should be speaking at that moment.

He had not been expecting contrition, nor had Victor expected this enthusiastic welcome. He had been prepared for her shame, embarrassment, and had been particularly looking forward to being an obnoxiously difficult customer. He certainly had not been expecting to be addressed by his first name. This, however…Victor Saltzpyre was not a man often taken off-guard, and he did not enjoy it.

“Aha…that somewhat rings a bell,” he replied snidely. “What was your name? Valeria?”

“Walburga,” she corrected gently. “Have you been to your old home yet?”

“Briefly.”

“Then you must have seen my boy Oswald!” Walburga grinned. “Your father was so good to him. Took him under his wing right after his dooming and taught him the business, Sigmar bless his soul. We’ll be forever grateful.

“Right.” Victor inhaled deeply, feeling unaccountably queasy. “It..uh…it looks as if he is doing an adequate job with the place. Wait…” Something clicked into place. “Walburga, he does not seem much younger than you, unless he has aged particularly badly.”

Walburga bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Wasn’t yet fourteen when I had him. Was rough at first, but we did all right.”

“A bit early to begin procreating,” Victor replied. “Even for Senden.”

“Didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter.” Walburga needlessly and studiously adjusted the loaves, avoiding Victor’s eye.

It was not often that Victor was at a loss for words. He stood numbly, staring, unable to reply.

“The father didn’t exactly want to claim responsibility.” Walburga continued rearranging the bread, a bit more aggressively now. “Gilbert told me about a ‘better’ place to bathe where no one would bother me. I should never have listened to him. Should have known he was the one…” She heaved a sigh. “But we’re doing all right enough, me and Oswald. Don’t need Gilbert, never did, glad he don’t bother with us, the evil...”

Sadness was worse than useless to a witch hunter. It hindered, slowed, blunted a man’s killing edge. Victor was filled to the brim with it, and he had no idea what to do with the mess.

“I…” he began. “I have an appointment with the Captain, and I must go. It was good to see you, Walburga.”

“Wait,” Walburga grabbed one of the loaves and handed it to him. “You always came for the rye, if memory serves. Take this in good faith.”

Victor thanked her, stowing it in his pack. “I did. Well remembered.”

“You always were the smartest kid in town, Victor.” Walburga beamed again, smile-lines fanning from those glittering green eyes. “I’m so glad that you have done so well for yourself. Good to see one of us escaping this town.”

He nodded brusquely, turned on his heel, and fled quickly to the threshold of the chapterhouse, deeply unsettled. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts, review his notes, and adjust his hat; then Victor strode through the door.


	3. A Meeting with the Mentor

“By Sigmar, how long has it been?” Captain Johann Weber rose creakily from his desk to greet Victor.

“Since that summit in Altdorf, I believe,” Victor replied, firmly shaking the old man’s hand, then taking his seat. “Thirty-six years ago, I believe.”

“And you a newly-minted hunter.” Johann leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think I’d ever seen Konstanze look prouder, Sigmar bless her soul.”

Victor smiled faintly. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in far too long. Indeed, Sigmar bless her soul. She was one of a kind.”

Just hearing her name conjured the phantom brume of thick tobacco smoke, the rustle of cracked leathers and an ambient croaking grumble. Konstanze Achterberg. She had been a gimlet-eyed crone with skin like cured jerky, a frizzled grey riot wreathing the underside of her hat and a wit sharp as a stiletto, clay pipe perpetually attached to the corner of her crooked mouth. Victor’s biceps ached at the memory of all of the penitential push-ups she’d assigned him, but were it not for her coaching he would not have developed into the crack shot he’d become. There were few people in this world that Victor Saltzpyre genuinely mourned, but she was one of them.

“I think she would be especially proud of the Savior of Helmgart,” Johann continued, pouring two glasses of red wine and sliding one toward Victor. “That city owes its survival to you, from what I gather.”

Victor’s smile faded.

“Savior of rubble and ruin,” Victor replied bitterly. “There is no saving Helmgart. It was lost before we’d even arrived. There is a chasm gouged through the center of the city, as if some great beast had torn it asunder.”

“Oh.” Johann sighed. “I am sorry. Yours is the only firsthand account I have received. I had no idea things had been so dire.”

“Things are dire everywhere, from what I understand,” Victor said. “I can only imagine the horrors we would be enduring had Archaon not been felled by the Kislevite Ice Queen.”

Johann shuddered. “Yes, things are bad enough as is without more bloody Northlanders. At any rate,” Johann leaned forward, taking a sip of his wine. “I imagine you are wondering why I have summoned you and your merry band back to humble little Senden, when there are other battles to be waged.”

“I do indeed,” Victor replied. “I know that you wouldn’t send for me strictly out of sentiment.”

Johann smiled. “Well, I must admit that it is good to see my first scouted apprentice returning covered in glory. But that is not why. I have a rather delicate question to ask, and I swear that I ask it out of need.”

Victor raised his eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Victor…” Johann lowered his voice. “Is it true about Ubersreik? That it was ratmen?”

Victor smirked. “Helmgart as well. How do you think the Rotbloods got there? T’was Skaven magic, and I witnessed it with my own eye.” Victor took a penknife from the desk and tapped it against his glass eye. “As you well know, I have only one, thanks to those wretched rat bastards.”

Johann nodded gravely. “So they do exist.”

“Oh yes, not that anyone will believe me, despite all of the evidence I attempt to show my superiors,” Victor continued. “But is that why you have summoned me across the Empire?”

Johann took a deep breath. “There have been strange occurrences lately, and people go into the forest and do not return. Not unusual on its own, but the numbers are becoming alarming. Then, one of our apprentices dragged himself back to the gates, sliced to ribbons and barely clinging to life. With his last breaths, he gibbered about a party of ratmen roaming the woods.”

“We were ready to dismiss it as a beastman attack, but…” Johann opened a drawer on his desk and drew out a soiled scrap of cloth and flattened it upon the desktop. It bore the telltale red triangle that haunted Victor’s nightmares. “Does this sigil look familiar to you?”

“It does indeed.” Victor frowned. “How far out was the apprentice attacked?”

“Hard to say.” Johann replied. “He said that he had crawled for at least three miles, but considering his injuries that seems difficult to believe. I’ve sent out bands to search the woods, but thus far have turned up nothing. Perhaps I was overreacting…”

“No, you have done well to contact me,” Victor assured him. “This is the way the ratmen enterprise. They lay low underground, increasing their numbers and planning their attacks. When they strike, the populace is woefully unprepared, and usually leave no trace of their villainy. Devilishly clever creatures. You are lucky that your man was able to obtain this flag. Such proof is often rare, until it is too late.”

“Sigmar preserve us,” Johann swore. "I am sorry to bring you back to deal with these creatures."

"Do not be," Victor grinned manically. "My rapier ever thirsts for ratman blood, and I am happy to oblige it."

"Right..." Johann eyed Victor askance for a moment, then remembered his true concern. “And these things routed Ubersreik? Senden would fall within minutes.”

“But _we_ are here now,” Victor said with no small note of pride. “After Helmgart, I am confident that we can make short work of any threat that Senden faces.”

“There’s the bravado I remember,” Johann grinned. “Though I do realize that this time it is well-earned. I suppose we should reconvene with your companions tomorrow. Today, take some rest. Unless you believe the threat imminent…”

“I do not believe so, but we will need to act quickly,” Victor said. “Gather as many of your men and tell them that we will be patrolling for beastmen. Do not mention the Skaven, otherwise they will question your sanity. We will scour the forest, leave no stone or leaf unturned. It is essential that we root this out sooner rather than later.”

“Well.” Johann stood. “I appreciate your alacrity in responding, Victor, and it is very good to see you again. I will let you go and inform your companions, but I beg of you to keep your voices low. There is no need to alarm the townspeople.”

Victor rose, nodding. “Thank you, Johann.” He enjoyed addressing the Captain by his first name. “As you know, I will be staying here tonight, so I will be easily accessible.” He made for the door, turning at the last moment.

“It is good to see you too.”


	4. The Particular Panic of Rye Bread

Victor found Markus, Sienna and Bardin back at the inn relaxing in the dining room with mugs of ale. A few other townspeople were taking a repast and giving the trio a wide berth, sneaking curious glances from time to time.

“Where is the elf?” Victor demanded, taking a seat at his comrades’ table.

“Said she was going to scout around in the woods,” Bardin explained. “Truth be told, don’t think she’ll be back tonight. You know how she is.”

“Then we shall have to carry on without her,” Victor grumbled, motioning them to lean in closer.

“It seems we are facing our common foe once more,” Victor continued, in a lower voice.

“Not more bloody rats!” Sienna exclaimed.

“For Sigmar’s sake, Witch!” Victor whispered hoarsely. “Do you want to panic the entire town?”

“Right, right.” Sienna quieted her tone. “So now what? What do you know?”

“Very little as of yet,” Victor replied. “A dead apprentice bearing their sigil. We shall meet with Captain Weber and his men on the morrow, but I felt the need to inform you of what we shall be facing yet again.”

“Well,” Markus leaned back in his chair. “It’ll be nice to be ahead of things, for once.”

A server brought bowls of steaming mutton stew for the original three diners, then hurried back to supply Victor with a fourth. They ate quickly and quietly, hunger from the day’s long journey finally taking hold. When they had finished the stew, Victor withdrew the loaf of rye from his pack and cut slices for each of them with his dagger.

“This,” he explained, handing out the bread to the perplexed comrades, “was a reward for a day of righteous work.”

“It’s bread,” Bardin observed, examining his slice.

“Rye bread,” Markus added.

“You mean to say this is dessert?” Sienna asked.

“We did not indulge in such a frippery as dessert in our household,” Victor replied. “This is a good, honest treat for special occasions.”

Sienna looked as if she were going to protest, then apparently thought better of it. “Fair enough.”

They each took a bite, and each looked similarly underwhelmed.

“It’s a good, solid rye,” Markus offered. “Well baked.”

“Aye,” Bardin added, chewing uncertainly. “Can’t say I’ve had a better rye…”

Sienna took a bite and placed it back down. “It is indeed…bread.”

Victor himself finally took a bite, and the taste took him by surprise. He’d, of course, had ryes from all over the Empire, but none quite tasted like this one. There was a bitter tang to it, a slightly tougher texture, like it fought back against the eating. It was exactly as he remembered, and Victor was instantly transported.

_A fierce pair of dark eyes, mirroring his own. His mother, stabbing at her food as if it had offended her. His father, head bowed, eating in silence. His back lashed and stinging…_

Victor swallowed, the bread sticking in his throat. His heart had inexplicably begun to race, terror rising in the pit of his stomach.

“You all right, Grimgi?” Bardin asked. “You’ve gone all white!”

“It’s…” Victor stammered. “It’s…unsatisfactory. There is no need to consume further on my account. I…I just remembered something I need to discuss with Weber.”

Victor stood up quickly, folding his hands behind his back to mask their shaking. “I will see you tomorrow.”

He rushed out of the inn, attempting to steady his breath and his steps. He could hear Markus calling out and asking if he needed aid, so Victor quickened his pace. The town seemed to close in around him, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and manure becoming unbearably oppressive. Victor cursed himself. He’d been in the belly of Skaven nests, strode confidently through a Skittergate, battled in Norsca itself. He had felt nowhere near the same level of fear then as he did at this moment. It was inexplicable and infuriating. The sun was sinking on the horizon, but Victor ached to find scout ahead, find the Skaven, and mete out holy justice upon their wretched hides. He needed to sink his blade into the heart of a squealing ratman, paint the tunnels with their fetid blood.

His breath began to slow. _That’s it…I simply need purpose to keep me steady._ He needed to surround himself with the Order, a barrier from the mundanity of this pitiful town. When Victor reached the chapterhouse, he nearly wept with relief. Without speaking to any of the apprentices, he reached his guest quarters, removed his notes from his pack, and began to review.

*

The sun slanted through the shuttered windows, and Victor awoke at his desk, parchment stuck to the side of his cheek. He’d remembered needing a brief nap… He started when he noticed the shadowy figure crouched upon his storage locker, glittering black eyes fixed upon him. Victor jumped, knocking over his bottle of ink and then scrambling to minimize the mess.

“Don’t appreciate being spied upon, One-Eye?”

“How the hell did you get in here, elf???” Victor growled.

“It was pathetically easy,” Kerillian replied. “For a supposed elite force, your defenses are less than adequate.”

She tossed Victor a rag from his pack. “I was scouting last night, and found something disturbing. This town’s got rats.”

“You know the location?” Victor demanded, wiping the ink from his sleeve.

“I have an idea, but I cannot be sure yet,” Kerillian replied. “Did you already know?”

“If you had bothered to stay with the others, I would have informed you,” Victor grumbled.

“And if I had stayed with the others you’d be searching the woods for days to find the correct spot. Which I can tell you.” Kerillian rose smoothly, moving toward the window and opening the shutters. “I suppose you’ll be wanting us to meet up here with your captain. The others are currently eating breakfast. We’ll arrive when we’re finished.”

Without further comment, Kerillian soundlessly leapt out of the window and onto a neighboring roof. Victor continued mopping up the mess and pondering this revelation. It was true, the elf’s research likely saved them days of fruitless reconnaissance, but her arrogance and lack of protocol rankled nonetheless.

_At least I’m already dressed_ , he mused as he made for the door. It was going to be a busy day. He had better get a decent breakfast.


	5. Why, It's Rats Again

Victor did not enjoy jaunts in the woods. They were a necessity, of course, and he was just as effective in the brush as he was in the village, but Victor much preferred the hum of conversation over the hum of insects. _Nothing like good, honest stone underfoot,_ Victor mused grouchily as he squelched through the moist greenery, barely avoiding an odiferous pile of deer droppings. At least in town the horse apples were easily avoidable. The elf was in her natural element, though, gliding silently and deftly through the high grasses. Markus was annoyingly cheery, repeatedly praising the brisk freshness of the air; and Bardin seemed to be in similar spirits as he hacked away at the flora with his axe. It was gratifying that at least Sienna was also out of her element, trudging heavily through the muck and loudly remarking upon the flammability of the trees. The small band of witch hunters and apprentices accompanying them were quiet and serious, scanning every rustle and twitch for proof of mischief.

“This way, lumberfoots,” Kerillian called, skipping ahead toward a large outcropping of rock in the center of a clearing.

The pong hit them immediately, not unlike walking into a wall. Everyone simultaneously groaned in disgust, the hunters fanning out and feverishly searching for the source. Victor knew the odor well, and he and his comrades passed knowing glances among each other.

“Beastmen?” One of the hunters called.

 _No beastman could produce this stench, you fool._ “We shall see,” Victor replied evenly. “Check the crag for sigils or unnatural features, and we will…”

“Hey!” An apprentice called, and they could hear the grind of rock upon rock. “It was like a button on the…”

There was little time to react. Kerillian leapt over the boulder, arrow already notched and at the ready. The others charged around to find an open maw yawning into the rock face, a dark tunnel leading into the earth and echoing with the scrabbling and chittering of hundreds fast approaching. Victor readied his guns as his companions likewise prepared themselves.

“Steel yourselves,” Victor cried to his band of brethren. “This will be a battle unlike any you have faced before! Apprentices to the back, and leave no space for the creatures to break our line. To be surrounded is to court Morr, do not let it happen. Hold fast!”

Within seconds the creatures were upon them. As soon as sunlight reflected upon the scores of beady eyes closing in from the darkness, Sienna sent a gout of flame into the tunnel, prompting a glorious chorus of squeals and shrieks. The next wave burst through, some smoldering from the Maven’s attack, and the witch hunter group beheld a Skaven horde for the first time in their lives. To their credit, the hunters held their line, hacking at the pink-skinned slave rats with aplomb. Victor himself plunged into the fray, slicing and stabbing at the red-eyed masses with glee. An arrow whizzed by his ear to sink into the eye of an attacking Clan rat, and he could hear the satisfying crunch of Bardin’s warhammer smacking into something shrieking behind him. _Sigmar, how I have missed this!_

Wave upon wave of ratmen poured from the cave, but between the skill and experience of the Ubersreik five and the diligence of the witch hunter party, the horde was subdued with little difficulty. When the last Skaven was slaughtered, the Senden sentries stepped back in stunned silence, drenched in black blood and gazing in disbelief at the still twitching piles upon the grass. Victor allowed them a moment to let it sink in. Sigmar knew he could have used one during his first encounter.

Shaking his head, the apprentice who had uncovered the passage stepped forward. “S-sir? Are these…is this…how…they’re actually real!”

“What is your name, boy?” Victor inquired.

“Apprentice Jens Schumann, Sir.” The young man stood up as straight as possible, though his knees were still knocking.

“Schumann,” Victor began. “I realize that their existence is a difficult thing to accept, but accept it you must. You should be proud. You have acquitted yourself well in your first battle.” He looked up to address the larger group. “I fear that you bear a burden now, one that myself and my comrades have borne for quite some time. You can bring as much hard evidence as you like, but for whatever reason, no one will believe you. It is infuriating, and it hampers our progress. However, whether the Order accepts it or not, the Skaven will never relent, and neither must we.”

Victor peered into the tunnel. “The apprentices should be escorted back to town. The rest of us shall scour this cave.”

“Wait,” one of the younger witch hunters said. “With all due respect, Sir, after all that we’re going into that cave? That is madness!”

The older witch hunters (and a few of the apprentices) looked askance at the speaker and edged away from him. The man gulped and suddenly found his boots very interesting.

Victor raised his good eyebrow. “What is your name?”

“Uh…Erik, Sir.” Erik shuffled his feet.

“And your surname?”

“Friedmann, Sir.”

“So, Friedmann,” Victor smoothly strode across to loom over the very regretful-looking hunter. “You clearly must have undergone the Trials to have gotten to this point, though I must admit that at the moment I am shocked that _you_ have done so. Tell me, what did you think your responsibilities would be?”

“I…uh…”

“I suppose that you would just be traveling the Empire, imposing upon the good will of our citizenship and sampling the best they have to offer, your only obligation to burn a few heretics or take down the odd beastman?”

“N-no, S-sir, I just…”

Victor continued, ignoring the man. “I suppose this is your true education. This,” he gestured to the mounds of Skaven dead. “Is our responsibility. This, demons, Rotbloods, any sort of living nightmare of which your feeble mind can conceive, THIS. Your Captain gained his position when he had slain a fiend of Khorne. Have you any idea what those look like? FRIEDMANN.” Victor’s voice rose to ring upon the surrounding trees. “THIS IS OUR LEGACY. WE ARE THE BULWARK AGAINST THE FORCES OF CHAOS. WE ARE THE WALL THEY BREAK UPON WHEN THEY THREATEN OUR BELOVED EMPIRE. WE ARE THE LINE BETWEEN ORDER AND OBLIVION.” Victor paused, glaring at Friedmann, whose face was beet red at this point. “If you have second thoughts, you may need to rethink your choice in career.”

Friedmann shook his head. “N-n-no, Sir.”

Victor turned and headed back to the mouth of the tunnel.

“Take the apprentices back, Friedmann,” he said without looking behind. “And any other hunters whose faith is failing them should accompany him. And while you do so, perhaps you should question whether you have the proper mettle for your Order.”

The foul smell only intensified when Victor neared the entrance. “Fuegonasus, send a light into the tunnel.”

Sienna sent a fireball into the darkness, lighting a narrow passage winding down into a spiral. It led down at least one hundred yards. The remaining hunters crowded around to try to see.

“Right,” Victor began. “Myself and my crew will enter first. Stick close to walls, and as I said before, do not allow yourself to be surrounded. When you hear the Bright Wizard call out, be sure to duck immediately, lest you serve to light the way.” As Sienna chuckled, Victor continued. “If I call retreat, do not question, do not hesitate. Do not worry about us, our fate is our own. I call retreat, you get the hell out. Am I understood?”

Victor turned to find six hunters remaining, including Jens the apprentice.

“Schumann,” Victor said gently. “Sigmar appreciates your bravery, but we require experienced hunters for this task. Go back.”

“But Sir!” Schumann replied. “I can hold my own. I’m a dead shot, and…”

Victor smiled. “Schumann. You show great promise, and I would like to see that promise unsnuffed by whatever is lurking in this cave. I will need your help later, but for now, you must return to Senden. Please deliver a report to Captain Weber, sparing no detail.”

Schumann opened his mouth, then shut it, nodding dejectedly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Fuegonasus,” Victor ordered, “we need you to light the way.”

“Don’t you just?” Smirking, Sienna entered the cave, the rest following her lead.

*

Victor knew that it was useless to tell the hunters not to cough. Even Markus was sputtering a bit, and while the Ubersreik five had experience with this particular fetid atmosphere, it had been a while. Victor himself had covered his nose and mouth with a linen scarf, but it did little to banish the stench. There was no attempting stealth this time.

Fortunately, the horde they had initially subdued must have been an advance guard. The only met a few wandering clan rats in the narrow, winding tunnels; dispatching them swiftly before they could escape and warn the others. The path twisted and turned until it opened onto a large chamber glowing green with piles upon piles of a telltale ore.

“I should not have to tell you not to touch those stones,” Victor cautioned quietly.

The warpstone illuminated a partially built wheel, cruel spikes protruding from the sides, as well as a patrol of Stormvermin standing guard. Various rats hammered and adjusted, and all were thus far oblivious to the presence of the group. Sienna reflexively moved to the back of the line, and Victor extended his arm to stop.

“You will find the armored rats a greater challenge than the ones before,” Victor whispered. “Aim for the head, if any should survive…Bardin, do you have the…”

Bardin proudly produced a bomb from his pack. “Aye, Grimgi! Just say the word…”

Victor held up three fingers, then two, then one. Sienna lit the fuse, then Bardin hurled the explosive straight into the heart of the Doomwheel. The blast devastated the operation and deafened Victor and his group. Victor cried for attack and charged into the fray as the dust cleared, picking off one Stormvermin with his pistol, and another spearing his rapier through its eye. The rest were scattered in gory hunks about the room, but there was no time to celebrate. They could hear another horde pouring through the tunnel behind the Doomwheel wreckage.

“Head them off!” Victor cried, running toward the opening.

They took great advantage of the bottleneck. None of the creatures crossed the threshold, and the ratman dead piled up to the point that the tunnel was very nearly plugged. The stream of rats slowed to a trickle, when they heard a massive clanking echoing from the passage. Victor saw the green glow for a second and screamed for everyone to get out of the way, launching himself backward and accidentally tackling Markus as the others scrambled out of the way. Had he acted a moment later, they all would have been dead. The beam instantly incinerated the mass of corpses blocking the tunnel and scorched a black scar into the wall behind the party. Victor peered back into the passage and spied the silhouette of a large robotic…. _thing_. It was not quite as big as Rasknitt’s creation, but it was moving at great speed. Victor could hear the loud peal of cackling amongst the whirs and rattles, and it broke him from his brief stupor.

“Back!” Victor yelled. “Back to the walls!”

When the creature finally arrived, there was a weapon from every corner of the chamber pointed at its head.

“Yes, yes! Challenge have we???” it shrieked. “Bored we were! Come-come! We like sport!”

For the first time since encountering the cave, Victor felt a fleeting moment of doubt. He had not expected a warlock-engineer in this little corner of the Empire. It loomed before them, clothed in metal and gears, its arms ending in two sparking warp-blades. The glow of warpstone glinted upon its goggles and grinning yellow fangs.

The damn thing was _fast._ Its hydraulic legs carried it in a blur of green and silver as it lunged at Markus. The soldier dodged just in time, looking stunned at the creature’s ease of movement. Bardin launched himself at the engineer like a bearded cannonball, knocking it off balance. The gears shifted, and the engineer righted itself within seconds.

“Heads up!” Sienna warned, and sent a column of flame to engulf the creature.

It shrieked as its metal casing glowed with heat, and Kerillian sank an arrow between two segments of its armor. The warlock-engineer roared and sent twin beams of green electricity arcing through the room. One glanced against one of the witch hunters and sent him flying. Another hunter yelled and ran to the fallen one’s aid, peppering the creature with a flurry of shot from her repeater. Victor pulled the crossbow from his back, ran his fingers over the carved saints set into the stock, and whispered a quick prayer before letting loose his bolt. It struck the warlock in the space between its helmet and shoulderplate. The Skaven whirled around, enraged now, and charged straight for Victor, bringing its blades down in a vicious cross. Were it not for his quick reflexes, Victor would have been easily bisected, but he did not escape unscathed. A blade carved into his left arm, slicing through his leather coat like a hot knife through butter. Victor grunted, the pain briefly blinding, and he dropped the crossbow and unsheathed his rapier. He dodged and dodged, the warlock stabbing and cleaving the air wildly, allowing the others to converge upon it. The party hacked and slashed with abandon, and the warlock-engineer growled and began to charge its blades once more. Victor lunged with his rapier and plunged it through the right lens of its goggles. It let loose one final wail, thrashed for a few moments, then collapsed into a heap of scrap metal and sparks.

Panting, Victor retrieved his crossbow and assessed the situation. It could have been much worse, all told. The felled witch hunter was being helped back to his feet by his comrade, and everyone else looked more or less unscathed.

“You all right, Sir?” Markus peered at Victor’s wound.

“Fine enough,” Victor huffed, catching his breath. He addressed the wounded witch hunter leaning on his companion, who draped his arm around her shoulders. “You two, will you be able to reach town safely?”

“Uhn-“ The wounded man winced. “I believe so.”

“We will make it,” his helper added. “He can lean on me.”

“Right,” Victor replied. “Your courage is commendable. I will be sure to mention it to Captain Weber. Go in safety.”

Victor studied the dead creature as they departed. “I have never seen a warlock-engineer before. Pity we cannot haul it back to the chapterhouse. Perhaps later…” He glanced down the tunnel. “We’d better continue.”

“But, Sir, you’re hurt!” Markus protested.

Victor shook his head irritably. “T’is but a flesh wound. I am functional. Come. We must see the depth of this threat.”

The diminished group warily made its way through the tunnel, Sienna lighting the way. Before long they reached a large workroom littered with tools, broken experiments, and, of course, warpstone. Victor instructed the hunters to take any notebooks they could find. A smaller passage branched off from that room, fairly close and ending in a locked door. Victor approached it, hearing the sound of squealing from behind. He motioned for his comrades to ready their weapons. Bardin made short work of the door with his hammer, and the sight made the group step back in horror and disgust.

“Oh holy hell..” Sienna swore, stepping back. “I think I have to retch.”

“What the hell is that thing?” Markus demanded.

A massive, bloated, hairless rat-thing dominated the small chamber. Its tiny, useless limbs flopped at its sides, and it stopped chewing upon the corpse of some unfortunate guardsman to whine at the sight of them. It was surrounded by scores of mewling, slimy ratlings scrabbling blindly at the dirt floor.

“A breeder,” Victor replied in wonder. “By Sigmar, I never thought I would ever see one of these things. What I wouldn’t give to drag that back to my laboratory.” He sighed ruefully. “But not today. We’d better eradicate the threat. Fuegonasus?”

“Gladly.” In seconds the room was alight, and the shrieking contents roasted alive. When Sienna was finished, the group secured the chamber, then returned to the workroom.

“I think we have all that we can carry,” the eldest witch hunter (Kreider, Victor recalled) announced.

Victor nodded, pretending not to notice the pain screaming through his arm. “Excellent. We have done righteous work this day. Let us return to town, satisfied with a job well done.”


	6. Various Kinds of Discomfort

The sun was high in the sky when the group returned to town. Victor’s stomach grumbled and his arm throbbed, but it was necessary that they debrief Weber first.

“That looks bad, Saltzpyre,” Sienna remarked, peering at his ravaged limb. “You should probably see someone about that before we do anything else.”

“Nonsense,” Victor replied, focusing on his steps to distract from the pain. “Our duty is paramount. The wound can wait. I am perfectly fine.”

“You’re leaving a trail, Grimgi!” Bardin admonished. “Best not leave it for too long.”

Victor concentrated upon his breath, the path, anything to ignore the fact that he was exhausted and in agony. They trudged back, past the crowded market, when…

“Victor!”

Walburga waved cheerfully from her stall. Sienna raised an amused, questioning eyebrow and halted. Victor grimaced.

“Victor?” Sienna grinned mischievously. “Victor has a lady friend?” She inclined her head toward Walburga. “She is cute! Are her wares any good? I think I must find out!”

“Get back here, Witch!” Victor hissed as Sienna wove her way through the crowd to the bakery. “Our duty takes precedence!”

“Well, if Zharrin is getting a snack…” Bardin began to follow as Victor sputtered angrily.

“I can think better with something in my stomach…” Markus mused, trailing after the dwarf. “Why don’t you get your arm treated in the meantime, Sir?”

“And I suppose you’re going to…” Victor turned and found that Kerillian had already disappeared, probably back to the woods.

“Ugh,” Victor groused to himself, stomping after the others. “No sense of duty, none!”

Victor cursed softly to himself. Walburga was chatting animatedly with Sienna, who was looking entirely too amused.

“So…” Sienna smirked as Victor approached. “He was lecturing Bart the dog? I wonder if it took?”

“It seemed very effective,” Walburga chuckled. “Never stole from the fishmonger again, did he? Hello, Victor!”

“I am sure that my companions are finding your tales very entertaining,” Victor huffed. “But…”

“You don’t look well, Victor, you’re so pale!” Walburga, suddenly concerned, stepped out from behind the stall. “Sigmar’s teeth, your arm! What on earth happened to you?”

“Risks of the job,” Victor breathed. “I will see the physician after our debriefing. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we must meet with Captain…”

“The hell you are!” Walburga exclaimed. “Physic’s got his hands full with that poor bastard Hunter Flansberg was dragging back across her shoulders. Another hour and that thing will go septic! C’mon, I’ve patched up most of the people in this town, maybe even more than Doctor Knudsen.” Walburga yanked Victor’s good arm and pulled him into the shop. “Karin, look to our customers.”

Walburga dragged Victor, too exhausted and in pain to resist, into a tidy back room of the bakery and sat him into a tall chair. After thoroughly washing her hands, she opened a chest and withdrew a bottle of clear spirits, several bleached-white bandages and thread, and a metal box of gleaming needles. Victor would have been more apprehensive, but thus far Walburga’s room and supplies were far cleaner than what he was accustomed to being treated with at various butchers around the Empire. He curiously watched Walburga reverently retrieve a container wrapped in worn silk tied with a blue ribbon. She untied the ribbon to reveal a carved wooden box with a dove drawn in chalk upon the lid. Walburga then opened that box and removed several pots of unguents and salves.

“All right, let’s get that jacket off.” Walburga unbuckled his various belts, unbuttoned his coat, and very gingerly slid it from his shoulders. She apologized when Victor winced as the fabric glanced upon his wound, as if it would have been avoidable. Then, the chainmail shirt. Walburga helped him raise his arms and lifted it from him, and Victor gritted his teeth again and tried not to cry out. The relief was profound when he maintained his composure. Then, the undercoat, which was fortunately the easiest to discard. When Victor was finally down to his linen tunic, he shivered as a breeze from the window skated across his bare arms.

“My god,” Walburga said, aghast as she examined the gash. “How on earth are you conscious? You look as if you’ve lost half of your blood!”

“I’ve battled ogres in worse shape than this,” he replied, a bit reedier than he would have liked, peering down to try to catch her reaction.

Walburga frowned, pouring the spirits upon a fresh rag. “I’m amazed you’re alive, then. Well, better not put off cleaning it. Are you ready?”

Victor nodded, bracing himself. Walburga pressed the rag to his arm, and Victor hissed as the spirits seemed to set his arm aflame. She cleaned quickly and thoroughly, and he exhaled heavily when she finished. She apologized, then opened one of the pots. It contained a fresh-looking green-tinted salve, emitting a sharp but not unpleasant scent of herbs. Walburga began to sing softly to herself, so softly that Victor could not ascertain the words, and dabbed the unguent into the wound. He was expecting this to sear, but the salve seemed to sap the pain from the gouge. Walburga took the needle and thread, still singing, and began to sew the wound shut. It was strange. Victor could somewhat feel her stitching, but it did not hurt.

With the pain having subsided, it was now impossible to ignore the fact that he was barely dressed, and that Walburga’s hands were busy upon him. She was hard at work, brow furrowed in concentration as she deftly tied fine and even stiches into his flesh. From time to time she would bite her lip and tilt her head to catch the light just right, and Victor found himself pondering how he’d seen the color of her eyes in the shallows of the Reik at dawn, grey-green, as the silt shifted and the sun was only a hint upon the horizon. Those eyes were fringed with sweeping lashes, casting shadows upon her cheek when she would look downwards. He could feel her breath warm his bare skin as she worked, and the scent of apples and brown sugar rose from her like a sweet perfume. Victor uncomfortably realized that, having spent the morning trudging through a fetid Skaven den, that he probably carried the stench of it along with him. Walburga didn’t seem to notice, though, simply whisper-sang to herself in a honeyed lilt, the sunlight gleaming upon her hair like liquid gold. She leaned forward to tie off the thread, and that mischievous sunlight caught upon her prodigious bosom, the swell of it against her simple underdress, milk-white and creamy, and… Victor quickly looked up, studying the wooden beams of the ceiling and hoping that Walburga would not notice the burn in his cheeks.

When the gash was closed and the thread tied off, Walburga opened another pot, this one with a vermillion-colored paste. She continued her quiet tune as she applied it, and it took a moment for Victor to realize that the pleasurable heat spreading through his arm was not just the sensation of an attractive woman’s hands upon him. He pulled back, and the lovely warmth was gone, replaced suddenly with a dull ache.

“What are you doing?” He asked sharply.

Walburga pulled back, confused. “Healing you. That should be fairly obvious.”

Victor shook his head. “That was different. There was…it was…”

“I am good at patching wounds,” Walburga replied huffily. “From what I’ve been told, people heal faster with my salves. Better than the physic’s, they say.”

“What were you singing?” he asked warily.

“A prayer to Shallya,” Walburga explained. She rose, backing away from Victor, wrenching her hands together. “I figure it never hurts to ask for a little aid, and I’ve never had reason to regret it.”

Walburga closed the various containers and replaced them, carefully wrapping the wooden box back in its silk cover and retying the ribbon.

“Nor have my patients,” she added defensively.

“There is something to this.” Victor stood up, studying his rapidly-closing wound.

Not ten minutes beforehand, Victor was worried that he would collapse from fatigue and pain. Now, it was as if he’d just woken from a full night’s sleep, with only a faint sting in his bicep. It was incredible. He looked upon Walburga, her jaw clenched and quivering, her eyes glassy.

“What are you trying to say?” Walburga raised her chin defiantly, though her voice shook. “I’ve only used the herbs in my back garden to make those medicines, and you are welcome to examine them. There is no law against helping people. I asked Captain Weber myself, and he gave his blessing. Said the town needed as many helpers as it could get.”

 _She has Shallya’s favor_ , Victor realized. Walburga had Shallya’s favor, and she had no idea. The only times he’d received such treatment was at those temples, and from skilled priestesses at that.

Walburga left the room and returned with a hard roll, tossing it to him. “You’ll need to eat,” she said flatly.

Victor caught the roll, and Walburga departed the room, leaving Victor standing stunned in the empty room. He dressed quickly, wondering how to react to this. It wasn’t heresy, not really, considering that she’d been calling upon a perfectly respectable god for her skill. It wasn’t authorized either, though. He needed to consider the situation further, but Weber’s briefing awaited. He exited the room to find Walburga back at her stall, serving customers with a strained smile. His companions were just finishing a quick snack.

“That’s quite a recovery, Saltzpyre!” Sienna observed. “Your face looks like it has something approaching color.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “I hope you are satisfied with this brief interlude, but it is beyond time that we debrief Captain Weber. Come, let us not tarry further.”

They more or less fell into line and began to head toward the chapterhouse. Victor paused, looking over his shoulder at Walburga, who was at that point swamped with customers. He needed to thank her, at the very least, but did not know how. An absurd sensation of guilt wracked him, which was silly. He had done nothing wrong. There was an unusual occurrence, and he reacted the way any decent witch hunter would. No reason to apologize.

He stepped back toward the bakery, then paused. Walburga glanced up, catching his eye, then quickly looked away.

_No._

Victor turned abruptly and made for the chapterhouse.


	7. The Soldier Meets the Shepherdess

Victor and his companions entered the chapterhouse just as a wan, shaken-looking woman maneuvered past them and out the door. Weber was already in the threshold of his office and beckoned the four in.

“So I gather that your patrol was successful!” Johann eased himself into his chair as the four took theirs.

“It was,” Victor replied. “I am pleased to report that we have thoroughly scoured the den and eliminated the threat with a minimum of casualty. I plan to stay for perhaps another week to conduct my research and revisit the cave, but we should be…”

Johann raised his hand. “I fear,” he interrupted. “That we may need you for a bit longer. That woman who just left had come with a rather distressing report. Her farm lies on the north of town, and she just found several of her sheep eviscerated in a way that apparently no wolf could manage. I suppose it could be nothing, but I would appreciate it if you could rule out the presence of more ratmen.”

“Ah.” Victor folded his hands. “That does not sound like their usual behavior, but I suppose it cannot hurt to check. In the meantime, have you been able to examine the spoils your men have retrieved from the cave?”

They discussed the mission and the evidence it uncovered, Johann alternately horrified and fascinated by these new revelations. The Senden captain expressed gratitude for their expertise in putting down the Skaven menace, and amusement in Victor’s admonishment of the doubtful hunter.

“I was half convinced Friedmann was going to dig a hole for himself,” Johann chuckled. “I don’t think he’ll be mouthing off any time soon.”

“At any rate,” Johann rose, leaning upon his desk. “Thank you for your diligent work, and I will discuss plans tomorrow for the Vogel farm in the morning. In the meantime, get some rest, and I look forward to seeing you then.”

While Bardin, Sienna, and Markus filed out the door; Victor lingered behind. “I will catch up with you.”

Once he was sure they had departed, Victor turned to Johann once more, who regarded him with an amused curiosity. “Johann, I would like to ask you about something.”

“Yes?”

Victor took his seat again. “Are you aware that the baker is practicing medicine?”

Johann laughed. “Ah, Walburga. Of course I know. She’s better than our official physician. If memory serves, you had taken a special interest in her back in the day as well.”

Victor glowered. He’d hoped that Johann had forgotten about that…

“Did I? That is irrelevant,” Victor spat, a bit more forcefully than necessary. “Were you aware that she is casting Shallyan magic?”

Johann leaned back in his chair. “Is that so? I had a feeling she was. Old lady Somner had taken Walburga under her wing and had mentioned that she may have a gift. Somner was a retired Shallyan priestess who settled down with the fur merchant, so it’s no surprise if she passed on that particular knowledge. I send the hunters over to her if Doctor Knudsen is busy or, honestly, if I want them fixed up as quickly as possible.” Johann raised a fluffy white eyebrow. “And how did you come upon this knowledge?”

Victor frowned. “My faithless companions insisted upon a snack before your debriefing, the baker noticed a minor cut upon my arm and insisted upon treating it. I suppose I should have protested, but..”

“A minor cut?” Johann examined Victor’s sleeve. “Your coat tells a different story.”

“That is irrelevant,” groused Victor, fiddling with the leather. “My point is…” _Sunlight, apples, verdigris_ … He trailed off for a moment. “How long have you known about this?”

“Basically as soon as we established the chapterhouse here,” Johann replied. “I suppose that was about two years after I took you to Altdorf. Old lady Somner took me aside, showed me her Shallyan credentials and told me that she was basically the only healer the town had, and that she was apprenticing the baker’s daughter. Considering she’d just helped us out after a skirmish in the woods, I wasn’t about to decline any aid.”

“If Walburga showed signs of witchery,” Victor asked. “Why wasn’t she sent to Carroburg? If the Shallyan priestess saw promise, why was the girl left here instead of apprenticing at the Temple there?”

“Come, Victor,” Johann replied. “The girl had a child. The father was nowhere to be found. She’d already showed that she lacked proper discipline there, and she wasn’t about to leave the infant behind. Moreover, her parents would never allow her to travel, either. Ever since her transgression, from what I understand they never let her out of their sight.” Johann poured a glass of wine and offered it to Victor, who declined. “We have to pick our battles, Victor. She’s harmless, and has helped us out on more occasions than I can count. We all win.”

_Except, perhaps, Walburga_. _Seems she didn’t get a choice in_ this _matter, either._ That obnoxious, useless sadness began to rise within Victor again, and tamping it down was proving more difficult than he could manage. He regarded Johann smugly reclining in his seat, sipping his excellent vintage, and for the first time in his life he was disappointed. He remembered Johann in his prime; golden, robust, valiant, everything Victor had pictured a true warrior of Sigmar should be. Victor had idolized Johann from the moment the elder witch hunter had ridden into town, pestering the dashing hunter for stories and offering unneeded help. Victor admonished himself, knowing full well that he had never involved himself in the various dramas ongoing in the towns he’d visited, but… _Sigmar, she had been so young_. In his thirty-six years as a witch hunter, would he have investigated such a scandal? Victor’s stomach squirmed.

_Probably not._

“Fair enough.” Victor rose from his chair. “I felt that you should be made aware, and you are. I shall pursue the matter no further. Good day, Johann, I shall see you in the morn.”

Victor exited the chapterhouse even more unsettled than when he had entered. He began to make his way to the inn for a quick repast with his companions, when he heard Kruber’s voice off to his right. He looked over to find Markus speaking with Walburga and the woman whom they had passed inside the chapterhouse, who at this point had gone from harried to outright weeping. Walburga bustled from behind the stall to squeeze the woman into a hug, and the weeper allowed it, breaking into sobs and burying her face in the baker’s shoulder.

“Sir,” Markus addressed Victor upon his approach. “This is Kirstin...Kirstin?” He looked to Walburga for confirmation, who nodded. “It was her farm that was attacked.”

“Right,” Victor said, trying to ignore the fact that Walburga was pointedly looking past him.

“I’m sorry.” Kirstin pulled back from Walburga and tried to compose herself. “It’s just…ever since Wilhelm passed, I’m all alone on the farm at night, and I was always afraid of this…”

“All alone?” Markus asked, concerned. “You couldn’t request a guard from the Order?”

“I…I…I didn’t know I could,” Kirstin replied, warily peering at Victor. “I just told Captain Weber what I’d found.”

“You’re staying at the inn tonight, are you not, Sir?” Walburga glanced from Markus to Kirstin; Markus, tall, powerful, strapping; Kirstin, petite, sturdy, yet with a graceful mien and lovely fine-boned face.

Victor could see the cogs and wheels at work in Walburga’s mind plainly, and he was not sure he approved. Even so, he knew that Markus would not be comfortable knowing that a lady was possibly facing the threat of ratmen on her own. The fact that she was a particularly pretty lady wouldn’t hurt his chivalry, either. However…it would not be a bad idea to have a sentry to keep an eye out on the Northern front and gather information overnight.

“ _Sir_ ,” Walburga addressed Victor now, painfully formal. “Would it be possible…”

“Oh, I’d be glad to stand guard, Sir, if you give your leave,” Markus interrupted eagerly, and Victor could all but feel the waves of smug satisfaction emanating from the baker. “Uh…if you would want my services, Madam,” Markus added bashfully to Kirstin. “I do not want to…uh..impose, or anything…”

“That would be wonderful, but I do not wish to put you in danger…” Kirstin replied.

“Madam,” Victor cut in. “The Sergeant has proven himself against legions of Chaos, walked into the very mouth of hell and returned triumphant. I have hired him on as my bodyguard and has yet to fail me, and I can assure you that I am fairly capable on my own. I do not think that, after the walking nightmares he has personally vanquished, a random raiding beastman will cause him to quail.”

Kirstin goggled at Markus now, her distress seemingly forgotten. “My goodness…”

Markus beamed at this unexpected praise. “Cheers, Sir!”

“Well,” Walburga interjected, clapping her flour-coated hands together. “It sounds as if we have found an excellent solution. Allow me to send you both off with a little something for the night.”

“I fear my accommodations are rather simple,” Kirstin admitted. “I have a spare bedroll, and...”

“Oh, that’s no worry!” Markus assured her. “I’m used to kipping rough. Besides, I still think I’ll get a better night’s rest than at the inn, now that our Sienna’s decided to take up with the innkeeper. Kept us up all bloody night…”

Walburga leaned forward, eyebrow raised. “Reeeaaaallly? Do tell…”

“Do we honestly have time for gossip?” Victor snapped. It was all getting far too mushy for his tastes.

“I just need to grab a few things from the inn,” Markus said, heading off. “Just give me a few moments and I can leave with you after that.”

“I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind,” Kirstin replied. “I’d like to know a bit more about…”

They walked off chatting, leaving Victor with a very gratified-looking Walburga. Her smile faded as the pair drew more distant, and she began to head back inside of the bakery.

“Wait,” Victor said, and she turned to regard him coolly.

“I…” he began, clasping his hands together. “I don’t believe that I properly thanked you for patching my arm.”

“No. You didn’t.” Walburga wiped her hands on her apron. “It would be better healed if you had let me finish.”

“Indeed,” Victor replied. “Well, I am thanking you now. I was just…surprised to be remedied with such skill.”

“So I take it you won’t be burning me in the town square?” Walburga folded her arms, clearly unwilling to make this easy.

“Not unless you give me sufficient reason,” Victor replied. “But fine. You want an apology, and I am giving it to you, though I remind you that it is my job to investigate the unusual, and I assure you that your healing skills are thus.” Victor cleared his throat. “I have to say, I have not received such competent treatment since last I was in Altdorf, in the Shallyan temple there.”

“Thank you,” Walburga’s expression softened, but her arms stayed folded. “I’d always wanted to visit a proper Shallyan temple. D’ya remember Old Lady Somner? She was the one who taught me, and she’d been a priestess in her day. Told me such stories…”

Victor smiled faintly. “I do, though I knew nothing of her past. She mostly scolded me for belling her cats. I regret nothing, though, as I needed to know which ones were pissing on the neighbor’s dill plants.”

Walburga’s frosty demeanor finally thawed, and she guffawed at this. “I’d forgotten about that! Chased you with a broom once, didn’t she?”

Victor smirked. “Not that it stopped me, and I found out that it was Tiddles who was doing the dirty work. I don’t think she ever owned up to the crime.”

“I suppose she wouldn’t,” Walburga replied, grinning.

Victor stood awkwardly not knowing what to say, wishing he knew where to start. It was not unlike when they were children, and he lingered on her threshold, telling Walburga stories of the townspeople as she helped her mother knead dough. She’d always had an ear for gossip.

“Well, I’d better reconvene with my companions,” he said finally. “I thank you again. Good night.”

“Good night, Victor,” Walburga replied. “I hope that you’ll stop by again tomorrow, though in better shape than you had today.”

Victor nodded and began to walk back toward the inn. For the first time in decades, he felt…giddy. Light. It was intolerable, and he forced himself to put his mind back onto their grim findings. Perhaps speaking with Sienna and Bardin would bring him back to the task. 


	8. In Which Alcohol Becomes Very Necessary

“So Markus has found a lady friend!” Sienna leaned back in her seat, feet propped on the table. “That didn’t take long. I believe you owe me some coin, Bardin.”

“Agh,” Bardin replied, reaching into his coin purse. “I thought I’d had another day.”

“You jump to conclusions,” Victor barked, doffing his hat and pulling out his chair. “The Sergeant is merely doing his chivalrous duty. Not everyone is as depraved as you are, Witch.”

Sienna chuckled. “You tell yourself that, Victor. Bardin, another bet: they’re engaged by the end of the month.”

“Not taking that one, Zharrin.” Bardin shook his head. “I should know better than to make bets with you. Besides, I believe our Azumgi’s a romantic at heart.”

“Fair enough,” Sienna grinned. “I must say, I think that we are enjoying this little backwater town thus far.”

“Indeed, we couldn’t escape hearing your enjoyment all last night,” Bardin grumbled.

“Fine, fine,” Sienna replied, laughing. “We’ll try to keep it down. What can I say? It’s been a while, and for a civilian, our innkeeper has a surprising amount of…stamina.”

“Sigmar’s teeth, Fuegonasus,” Victor scolded. “We’re in town one day, and…”

“Hermann?”

Victor turned to see an elderly, stooped woman leaning heavily on a staff shakily hobbling toward him.

“Excuse me, Madam?” Victor asked, his stomach dropping.

“Hermann, my god!” she croaked. “Where have you been? What happened to your face? Were you hurt?”

Victor had no response. Fortunately, the innkeeper burst from the kitchen and rushed to the crone.

“Mum,” the innkeeper said, trying to lead her to a room in the back. “You have to go back to bed.”

“Klaus, look!” The old woman cried. “Hermann’s back. Oh, I missed you. Come here, Hermann.”

“Mum,” the innkeeper explained patiently. “That’s not Hermann, that’s his son Victor. Hermann passed away fifteen years ago.”

“But…” Her voice warbled, and she raised a shaky finger to point at Victor. “It can’t be. Victor’s just a boy.”

“It’s been a long time, Mum. Victor’s grown now, see?” Klaus said gently, trying to guide her away. “He’s a witch hunter captain, isn’t that impressive? Look at his clothes. Hermann was the blacksmith. He never dressed like that, did he?”

Looking at her a bit more closely, Victor realized that he recognized her, but barely. Agatha Adelbert, wife of the previous innkeeper, Fritz Adelbert. Forty-four years ago, she’d been one of the prettiest women in town, red-haired and shapely and the object of fantasy for most of the teenage boys in Senden (and the subject of several limericks on the old wooden wall). Not much of that Agatha remained, save a sharp set of brown eyes. This Agatha burst into tears and began stomping her feet.

“No, no, NO!” Agatha howled, and it this point everyone in the dining room was trying not to pay attention (save Sienna, who was raptly watching). “I want Hermann!!! I want him back!” She scrabbled over to Victor and grasped his arm. “Hermann, don’t you know me? It’s me, your Agatha, your honeydew.”

“I…I…” Victor wrenched his arm back and shrank from her. “M-madam, you are much mistaken. I am not Hermann Saltzpyre, I assure you, and you are certainly not my honeydew! Innkeeper! Please remove this woman from my person!”

Agatha straightened up a little, peering at Victor intently.

“No,” she sniffled. “No, you’re not my Hermann, are you? You’re just a cruel, nasty, _ugly_ man pretending and I hate you!”

Agatha whacked him with her staff and shuffled back to a chamber in the back of the inn, and Victor could hear Sienna stifle a snicker. Klaus the innkeeper followed her back and barred the door, assuring her that he would be in soon. He rushed back over to Victor, hands clasped together in supplication.

“I am so sorry, Sir,” Klaus babbled. “She’s usually asleep right now. She’s not all there, she doesn’t know what she’s saying…”

Klaus paused, as if noticing Victor for the first time, and probably coming to the same disturbing conclusion that Victor had. Fritz Adelbert had been a short, barrel-chested man with a head full of white-blond curls. Klaus was dark, neither red-haired like his mother, nor blond like Fritz, and, unlike the pair of them, rather tall and wiry. Victor could now see a certain familiar jawline underneath Klaus’ neatly-trimmed beard, a similar slope to the nose, a bone structure much like his own, but diluted, softer. The innkeeper looked about ten years younger than him, and a quick bit of arithmetic told Victor that both Fritz and Victor’s mother would both have been alive when Klaus was born.

“I…” Victor began numbly as the blood began to drain from Klaus’ face. “I believe that I shall dine at the chapterhouse tonight. Good evening.”

Victor dared not look back at his companions, charging out of the inn as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. Dizzy, he wandered without aim until he approached the tavern. The windows flared brightly in the dimming sunlight, and boisterous music and conversation poured out through the door. Victor Saltzpyre was not a man who regularly engaged in alcohol, preferring to keep his faculties sharp and his reflexes nimble. He outright hated mingling with barfolk, and the racket irritated his ears. He began to step away, but then the events of the day began to fold in upon him. _Rats, Walburga, her hands upon him, her magic, Hermann, Hermann, Hermann…_ Victor lingered a moment at the threshold, then entered.

The tavern was crowded, barmaids busily delivering mugs of ale and dodging wandering hands. Victor recognized a few of the witch hunters among the rabble, who each attempted to straighten up and attempt respectability upon seeing Victor. He did not acknowledge them. Victor demanded the strongest spirit the bartender could come up with, and the man returned with a glass of a suspicious-looking amber liquid. Victor tossed it back and winced as it burned a path down his throat, and he sighed at the relaxation of his muscles as its effects took hold.

“Another.”

Victor tossed back a second drink, the spirit finding its way much smoother the second time around. He sat for a time, allowing the din of the crowd wash over him like a wave of white noise. He stilled, enjoying the oblivion, breathing in the haze of tobacco and beer and unwashed townspeople. It was not particularly pleasant, but there was a strange comfort in it. His serenity was broken by a shriek in the corner of the tavern. A young barmaid scampered tearfully back, smoothing her skirt and begging one of the older staffmembers for aid. The older maid consoled the girl and headed back to that darkened corner of the tavern, a resolute cast to her face. There was a bellowing laugh bursting forth, throwing the band from its pace. A sweaty-faced, corpulent man swathed in vermillion velvets stumbled into the musicians, atonally singing and sloshing his mug of beer all over himself and everything nearby. He was singularly unappealing, greasy strands of grey hair combed and plastered across a red pate, jowls flapping as he butchered a filthy drinking song. Victor stood, the rabble of the crowd fading under the sound of his pulse throbbing in his ears. _Gilbert._

“Should have sliced his nose from his face when I had the chance,” Victor breathed to himself.


	9. An Old Sleaze and a New Purpose

Gilbert Falkenrath gestured to a large boar’s head mounted upon the wall, one nestled amongst dozens. “This one is from the Drakwald Forest. Could have sworn I heard beastmen on that hunt. Ever encounter a beastman, Victor?”

Victor’s eyes swept the parlor, and it was a testament to his will that he refrained from sneering. The walls were plastered with magenta wallpaper, curlicued with gold and silver accents. Several portraits of the Falkenrath family were nestled in between the mounted animal trophies, and marble statues of nymphs in varying states of undress posed at every corner. Victor was strongly reminded of a Marienburg brothel he’d had to stake out several years back, its basement the site of a Slaaneshi cult ritual.

“A few,” Victor replied dryly. “You seem to have done well for yourself, Falkenrath. I do not remember this home being quite so lavish.”

“Oh yes,” Gilbert replied with an oily grin, patting down a few stray gray-blond hairs in his combover. “My father was not quite the businessman I am. He never wanted to branch out of our little town. I have been successful, though, and I think it is important to show it off. As an inspiration to others, you see.”

Victor eyed a painting of Gilbert, improbably muscular, brandishing a broadsword and standing upon a subdued greenskin. It was close enough to a traditional Sigmarite depiction to border upon heresy. Victor mentally filed it as evidence.

“Indeed.”

“You seem to have done well for yourself as well, Victor.” Gilbert clapped Victor clumsily upon the shoulder, chortling. “My god, I remember when you were a skinny brat, nipping at my heels and ready to tattle upon my every misdeed.”

_And I remember flattening you in the dirt while you sniveled for mercy_. Victor clenched his teeth, mastered himself, and replied. “Time is quite the transfigurer. I thank you for inviting me to your… _extravagant_ …home. I admit that I was surprised to find such a lofty personage as yourself communing with the riff raff at that, shall we say, _rustic_ watering hole.”

“Ah yes,” Gilbert rang a bell, scratching at his bulging, velvet-clad belly. “I feel that it is important to stay in touch with the common folk. They are inspiring, aren’t they, they way they toil all day long and still can steal a moment of joy in the evening?” Gilbert paused to let loose a great belch that echoed throughout the chamber. Victor winced in spite of himself, though Gilbert did not seem to notice.

“Doesn’t hurt that the barmaids are rather toothsome, either,” Gilbert added with a snicker and a wink as a young maid apprehensively entered the room.

“You rang, Sir?” she asked, keeping her distance from the Burgher.

“Yes, Gerta.” Gilbert crossed over to her, leaning in close. “I have a very important personage here this evening! This is Witch Hunter Captain Victor Saltzpyre, hero of Ubersreik and Helmgart, and my very good childhood friend. Isn’t that’s impressive?” He turned to Victor. “I’m a great friend to the Order. I do enjoy having members over from time to time for a lavish dinner. I’m sure the captain has informed you of my many donations to this chapterhouse and to the temple. No one is a more devout Sigmarite than I am, right, Gerta?”

“Yessir,” the unfortunate girl attempted to edge away from the encroaching Gilbert.

“Welcome, Sir,” she added to Victor.

“I think this merits a toast,” Gilbert wrapped his arm around the cringing girl’s shoulders. “I want you to bring us my finest brandy, and be sure to add just the right amount of water.”

“Yessir.” Gerta fled, but not before receiving a parting slap on the rump from Gilbert.

“You know…” Gilbert leaned in toward Victor now. “She’s cute, isn’t she? I could have her warming your bed tonight if you play your cards right…squeals and squirms in the most appealing ways…”

In his mind, Victor had Gilbert strapped to the questioning table in the depths of the chapterhouse. He was choosing which implement to begin with, if he would initiate the interrogation with a little light flaying, or if removing a finger or two would better start the process. Were he in a more distant town without a chapterhouse, it would be much easier for Victor to turn the populace against the burgher. He’d done it before (and it was always justified, _of course_ ). It would only take a few days to gather enough evidence and support to have him burning in the square, screaming into the night as the mob cheered for his crackling flesh. In Senden, though, it was a bit trickier. Gilbert clearly had more influence, and the support within the Order complicated matters. Not impossible, though…Victor just needed to figure out which Order members were under his sway, find a smattering of evidence…anything that could be twisted in his favor… _I could start with the nose, for nostalgia’s sake, then work my way out from there…_

“I see you like the idea,” Gilbert said, misinterpreting the faint smile curving Victor’s thin lips. “I could make a deal with you…”

“Unnecessary,” Victor replied making for the exit. “I appreciate the offer, but I fear I have an early morning and shall have to take a rain check on that brandy. Order business. I thank you for your hospitality, and…”

Victor was interrupted by a creak on the atrium stairs. Gilbert grinned and called out.

“Hilda! Come meet my friend before he leaves!” Gilbert leaned in to Victor as a small, heavily pregnant woman hobbled into the parlor. “My wife, Hilda. Say hello to Witch Hunter Captain Victor Saltzpyre, Hilda.”

Hilda looked barely out of her teens, yet she carried the air of a much older person, one who was utterly defeated by life. She smiled wanly at Victor and curtseyed.

“It’s an honor, Sir.”

“What are you doing out of bed, Hilda?” Gilbert demanded. “You know I don’t like you leaving your chamber.”

“Just wanted a bit of water, Sir,” Hilda replied. “And to stretch my legs a bit. I’m sorry.”

“I shall forgive you this time.” Gilbert’s tone carried the barest hint of menace. “But do not let me catch you disobeying again, Hilda. You know how it puts me out. Go back to your room.”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, shoulders sagging, as she carefully made her way up the stairs.

“Carroburg girls.” Gilbert shook his head. “Well, Victor, I hope to see you again! Feel free to call upon me anytime.”

“Oh, I shall,” Victor replied, strategies and plans already taking shape in his busy mind. “You can be sure of it.”

*

“Zharrin, I swear, you were worse last night than the night before,” scolded Bardin. “You may not need a good night’s sleep, but I certainly do. ‘Bout ready to fall off my steed.”

“I’m sorry, Bardin,” Sienna replied, sounding almost earnest. “He needed comforting. I mean, imagine you just found out that _that_ …” She gestured to Victor. “…is your brother.”

“This subject is not remotely appropriate,” Victor snapped, steering his horse along the path as shopkeepers began setting up their stalls in the dim dawn light. “And there is no proof, only malicious rumor.”

“Klaus is pretty convinced,” Sienna went on, undaunted. “Kept pacing and saying ‘Oh god, it makes so much sense’ and ‘That’s why he left me his wedding vase, I never understood’ and “I don’t look anything like Dad, and…’”

“Fuegonasus,” Victor warned. “I do not wish to h…wait, the wedding vase?” He shook his head and continued. “No! I henceforth forbid you to speak of this matter.”

They quietly rode on, exiting the town and starting onto the dirt road. The Vogel farm was visible at the crest of the hill.

“What I’m wondering is,” Bardin said finally. “If you’re the least bit alarmed that you’ve been bedding Grimgi’s kin. I mean…”

Sienna burst into laughter. “It is rather disturbing, isn’t it! Now I can’t help but wonder if a certain curve to the left is a family trait.”

“OH, FOR SIGMAR’S…” Victor yelled, face burning. “MUST YOU PLUMB THE DEPTHS OF VULGARITY EVERY TIME YOU SPEAK, WITCH? I CANNOT BEAR TO ENDURE THIS FILTH ONE SECOND LONGER.”

Victor spurred his horse ahead, Bardin and Sienna overcome with giggles.

“S’pose that’s a yes,” he heard Bardin mutter in the distance as they laughed even harder.

Victor cursed to himself the whole way, trying to drown out the scandalous banter behind him. It was bad enough to find that his father had been tomcatting all over town, but to be the subject of mockery… With how many other women had his father been involved? Was it just Agatha? Was Senden peopled by a fleet of mini-Saltzpyres? Did anyone else know? Did Mother know? Victor chuckled at that thought. Probably not. His father would have met a much earlier end had _that_ been the case.

That said, Victor pondered the day he had received news of his father’s passing. He’d been in Nuln, delivering a report on a nearby cult he’d just infiltrated. He’d read the letter, then put it aside, unwilling to think on it at that moment. He’d needed his wits undulled by grief, though the news did not affect him as much as he would have expected. His superior had asked Victor if he’d wanted to take a few days’ leave, and Victor had declined. It was nearing Hexennacht, and he’d needed to prepare. It had been a relief to concentrate upon necromancers rather than upon the beloved dead.

Similarly, Victor had felt a strange numb relief when given news of his mother’s death. He’d finished his trials not a month before, and he’d just been delivered a transcribed note bearing Sieglinde Saltzpyre’s overwhelming pride and joy. Then, a week after, a notice stating that his mother had succumbed to a sudden nasty infection. It was perplexing. Sieglinde had always been healthy as a horse and nearly as strong. Konstanze had asked if he’d needed some time to go home and see to his father, but… _no_. Victor had just received his first Templar mission. He’d had to prove his worth and devotion. For a moment, Victor nearly questioned if that had been the correct decision, but he pushed aside the notion immediately. The Order was his true family, Sigmar his sole guiding light. There was no use in pondering things he could not change.

The sun had fully risen by the time Victor reached the Vogel farm, a pleasant, quiet homestead dotted with fluffy, bleating sheep. A weary-looking Markus greeted him at the door, accompanied by Kerillian, who bore a large, bloody sack.

“They’re working together.” Kerillian dumped the contents of her sack upon the ground, three grotesque heads tumbling together in the dust. Two minotaurs, one Stormvermin. “The patrol was small, but closer to this place than should be comfortable. I searched these woods, but could find neither camp nor burrow. Perhaps they’re traveling…” Kerillian heaved a frustrated sigh. “I do not know. It is rare that my skills fail me.”

“They didn’t make it to the farm, thanks to Kerillian,” Markus explained with a yawn. “Other than that, there were no disturbances. I think perhaps I should continue standing guard here, y’know, since Kerillian _did_ find enemies lurking nearby.”

“Do you, now?” Sienna arrived, catching the conversation. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer that another of us take over so that you can catch some rest?”

“You won’t if _I_ leave you at the inn,” Bardin cut in., gesturing to Sienna. “This one was at it again last night.”

“Ah, no,” Markus replied quickly. “I don’t mind. I’ll just sleep during the day, and that will keep me sharp overnight.”

“Mmhmm...,” Sienna grinned. “I suppose you don’t want anyone else _guarding_ the lonely shepherdess out here on her own. Did you _guard_ her well last night?”

Markus flushed. “It’s um…not like that…we just talked and…I’m here on a..um…y’know… _professional_ …uh…capacity.”

Kerillian rolled her eyes. “Are we done here? I’ve no time for mayfly nonsense.”

“Was there anything of note on these creatures?” Victor asked her, grateful to return to the heart of the matter.

Kerillian reached into her pack, produced a ratty but heavy coin purse, and tossed it to Victor. “The Stormvermin was carrying this. Other than this, nothing else unusual, save that the beastmen and the ratmen seem to be allied for the moment.”

Victor opened the purse to find at least a hundred gold crowns. “This…this is most concerning. If there is no other information to be had here, I shall return to the chapterhouse and discuss your findings with Captain Weber. You, of course, are welcome to deliver the report personally…”

“No.”

Victor smiled faintly, relieved. He was in no mood to put up with the elf’s surliness. “Then I shall be off.”

The door of the house creaked open, and Kirsten peered out upon the group. “I thought I heard voices. Are you hungry? I can make breakfast if you like.”

Markus, Bardin and Sienna eagerly assented. Kerillian grudgingly accepted.

Victor, knowing where the conversation would inevitably lead, declined, mounting his horse. “While I appreciate the offer, I must return to the chapterhouse. I thank you and wish you all a good day. The rest of you, I expect to meet up with you at the chapterhouse at noon.”

“Not the inn?” Sienna asked, eyebrow cocked.

“Not the inn,” Victor growled. “Good morning to you.”

He rode away before he could catch any of the gossip, ears already burning.


	10. A Decent Proposal

“This _is_ concerning.” Johann counted the coins inside the pack. “How on earth did these creatures get coin, and this much? To whom was it going?”

Victor had his suspicions, but he was not yet ready to admit them and, moreover, he needed to find proof for himself. Victor imagined the culmination of the investigation. He would delegate the arrest to no other. To be able to throw Gilbert’s sins back to him personally, to watch him squirm, for savor Gilbert’s expression once he realized exactly what awaited him…

“The fact that the elf could not ascertain any clue to the location of either the Beastman camp or the Skaven burrow is most worrisome to me,” Victor replied. “It makes me think that there is some sort of witchery at play, probably grey magic. Are there any known wizards in the vicinity?”

Johann shook his head. “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. There are plenty in Carroburg who could have traveled here. I fear this has just become much more complicated.”

“Well,” Victor replied. “I have dealt with corruption of this sort in the past. I am confident that we will root out this heresy sooner, rather than later, though I suppose this means we shall have to linger in Senden a bit longer than expected.”

“As for that…” Johann steepled his fingers on his desk. “There is a matter I wish to discuss with you, and a proposal. I was going to wait, but I believe now is as good a time as any.”

Immediately, Victor knew exactly what Johann was going to ask of him, and he fought the impulse to flee the building. “Yes, Johann?”

“You have not been assigned a chapterhouse yet, am I correct?”

Victor sighed. “I have not. I was planning on touring the Empire to find the proper location to best organize an effective force.”

“Victor,” Johann began. “I realize that Senden may not be the most impressive venue. However…once I am no longer capable, I fear that our chapterhouse could be vulnerable without honest, impartial leadership.” Johann’s face fell, and for the first time since Victor arrived, the elder captain truly looked his age. “I am eighty-one years old, Victor. I have been holding onto this position for a long time, probably longer than I should have been. I haven’t been able to go on mission in over a decade. Hell, I can barely walk across a room without a cane, or wanting to color the air with questionable language. However, I do not trust anyone else to stay stalwart in this town, not completely. It needs a secure and steady hand, and I believe that you are the only one I with the wherewithal to take the reins. Please, Victor. I need your help. Senden needs your help. _The Order_ needs your help.”

Victor was quiet for a time. A substantial part of him wanted to decline at once. It was an uncomfortable dichotomy: the drive and obligation to be the perfect Templar, the impartial weapon of Sigmar, his sole goal to eradicate all agents of Chaos to come his way and to ultimately fall in glorious battle against them. However, everything in this blasted town seemed hard at work to undermine that identity. Everything served to remind him of his base origins, his secret desires, his frailty. After only two days, Victor had been thrown into more mental turmoil than he’d experienced since he’d lost his eye. Were it not for duty, he would leap upon his horse and make straight for Altdorf, with nary a backward glance (and with or without his companions). Hell, he’d been more at ease in the nightmare that was Helmgart, completely resigned to and comfortable with the knowledge that his grisly demise could have been lurking around any corner. Duty, however, was his guiding light, his sole purpose; and it certainly seemed that the harsh mistress had placed him firmly in this town, in this office, in this chair at this very minute. At the same time, he could not deny that underneath the roiling unease Senden had stirred within him lay a heavy longing for stability, community, something he could build and be a part of. Surely there was honor in that as well…

“I must think on it,” Victor replied finally, rising from his seat. “For the moment, though, my energies must be concentrated fully upon this fiendish mystery. I shall give you an answer when this is resolved.”

“And that is all I can ask,” Johann said, the dim light in the office settling upon him like dust. “Thank you, Victor. Your efforts are greatly appreciated.”

Victor nodded, then made his way out of the chapterhouse, wincing in the bright morning sunlight. The market was in full swing at this point bustling with people. A flicker of scarlet caught his eye, and Victor spied Gerta, the Falkenrath housemaid, skulking past with a furtive mien. Curiosity snagged, he watched as she approached the bakery, and he followed at a distance. Walburga emerged from the shadows of the threshold and beckoned the girl inside. Victor subtly drifted to the rear of the bakery and edged toward a window, where he heard quiet voices drifting from inside.

“…now you remember to take this first thing in the morning, right? Otherwise it won’t have time to blend with your humors.”

“Yess’m.”

“Are you all right? Are you sure you can’t get away?”

“You know how it is. Mum sent another letter saying Father still can’t find work, and with another little one on the way…they need all they can get or they’re out on the street. Don’t have no place else to go, not that pays like this.”

Victor heard Walburga exhale heavily. “I’m so sorry. Are you still hearing odd things in the basement?”

“It’s getting worse. I dunno wha’ he’s doing down there, but I heard him talking to some… _thing_. Its voice…just thinking about it gives me the shivers. And that gent he had over last night! Said he were a witch hunter captain, but he looked like a bloody great spider in a hat. Only had one eye, but the way he looked at me…like he knows how to take you apart like a puzzle and put you back together again, but sideways. Sir said he were his best childhood friend!”

There was a sound like a hiss. “Is that so? And how did the spider react to that?”

“Hard to say,” Gerta replied. “Looked like he stepped on a nail, but then that might have been his normal expression. But yeah…I try to stay out of the way when I can, hide in the broom closet sometimes.”

“Gerta, I know you need the money, but if you are so frightened…”

“No, no, I’m all right,” Gerta assured her. “The sons are away in Carroburg, so that helps, and a lot of times he goes off to the Griffin and Gallows and passes out when he gets home. I hide a lot, and that helps too. At least I’m not poor Hilda. I can come out here, see the sun and breathe fresh air. He hasn’t let her leave her room for over six months, poor thing, can’t even open the windows. She’s goin’ stir crazy.”

“Bloody crime it is,” Walburga muttered bitterly, then Victor heard the clink of metal. “No…no, love.”

“But I can afford…”

“You keep your coin, love,” Walburga replied warmly. “You need it more than I do. Just stay safe. Safe as you can, anyway.”

“Then take this,” Gerta replied. “Not much, but it’s something. I make them for the festivals…”

“It’s lovely, Gerta, cheers. You take care, love.”

Victor heard a rustling, then footsteps fading, then Walburga curse softly to herself. He silently crept back around the side streets, far enough that he could blend back in with the market rush. He saw Gerta at the fishmonger purchasing what he supposed would be dinner. Walburga had re-emerged at her stall, a little fabric daisy now pinned to her dress. Trying to ignore the jump in his pulse, Victor strode purposefully to her.

“Look who’s back!” Walburga said brusquely, handing a fragrant loaf of sourdough to an impatient woman. “How’s the arm?”

“Healing nicely, thank you,” Victor replied. “Listen…I need to speak with you.”

“Do you now?” Walburga brushed a stray weft of a curl from her eyes. “Speak, then.”

 _How many have the gall to speak to a Templar so gruffly, let alone a captain?_ “Not here.”

“Where then?” Walburga thrust her hands to her hips, and her blouse slipped from her right shoulder to reveal a massive puckered scar, its dappled, pearlescent surface not unlike the shape of a sun in splendor. She noticed Victor’s attention upon it, frowned, and tugged the linen sleeve to obscure it. “As you can see I’m busy.”

He could not trust the chapterhouse at the moment, he did not know the shepherdess well enough, and privacy was his main concern. So that left… _dammit_.

He leaned forward, gesturing for her to do the same. Walburga inclined her neck to better offer her ear, and Victor breathed in the scent of lemons and spun sugar. He had not meant for his lips to brush her ear, but she’d fidgeted as she reached for a baguette. The surprise contact jolted, as if a bolt of electricity shot through him.

“The inn at dusk,” he whispered, hoping she did not catch the tremor in his voice. “When you are finished for the day.”

Walburga withdrew, eyebrow raised, and nodded. Victor made to leave, but the aroma of the various baked goods and the sound of various customers crunching away at their purchases strongly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten yet that morning.

Victor straightened up, rifled through his purse, and, with as much dignity as he could muster, offered her a handful of coppers. “I would like a meat pie, please.”

Walburga laughed, handing him the steaming pastry. “Put your coin away, Captain. For now, anyway.”


	11. The Baker's Approach

Walburga finished wiping down her cutting board, did one last sweep of the kitchen, then pulled in her stall. She bid Karin farewell for the day and handed the girl her wages, then stood in her darkened kitchen as the light dimmed outside, head bowed and unusually weary.

She had no idea what awaited her at the inn. He certainly was not forthcoming in an explanation earlier. Was Victor still holding a grudge? Was she going to turn up there, only to disappear forever? Walburga was confident that this would not be the case, but she still wondered…

Victor had shown up looming at her stall, for all the world looking exactly as Gerta had described him, a “bloody great spider in a hat,” dark and menacing and terrifying. Any sane person would scramble from his gaze, but Walburga had been oddly elated. She remembered him for the ingeniously clever, desperate child he had been; spinning tales of how he would become Sigmar’s greatest defender, combatting and rooting out evil in every crevice in which it may hide. And there he was, looking every bit the grim warrior of a thousand battles, yet petty enough to want to cause trouble at her bakery. There was the friend she had missed, still lurking inside that fearsome shell, the boy who belled the neighbor’s cats and dexterously hid punctured bags of sand in folk’s coats to follow their trails. It was deeply satisfying to apologize, heaving the weight of forty-four years’ guilt of turning her back on him; and almost as satisfying to see him thrown by it. He pretended ignorance, but Walburga had become a deft reader of people in his absence. It had been essential. And yet…

Victor’s motives ultimately eluded her. Walburga had thought him growing friendly, or, at least, friendly for him; and then she hears from Gerta that he visits Gilbert Falkenrath. She suppressed a sad, pitiful hope that perhaps Gilbert was being investigated at last. She’d seen him in the company of more than one of Senden’s local witch hunters, and he always made a big noise about donating scads of his mysteriously acquired wealth to the Order. The militia were all in his pocket, naturally, leaving him and his wretched sons to run rampant through the town. Senden women knew to give him a wide berth, and thus the Falkenraths sought maids from elsewhere, usually destitute girls with no other choice. A steady stream of youthful maids paraded though the Falkenrath household, only to be escorted out under cover of darkness with swollen bellies. It was after the fourth or fifth that Walburga started taking them aside and offering them preventatives. And now Victor shows up at his home? Nothing ever changed, nothing ever would. At least the awful sons and pompous daughter were all now situated in Carroburg or Altdorf, spreading their own particular brand of nastiness there. 

The town clock struck six, pulling Walburga from her thoughts. It was now or never. Could one refuse an interview with a witch hunter captain? He’d asked her, as if she’d had a choice. Walburga sighed, and made for the door.

The town murmured quietly all around her in the fading light of day. Walburga waved to the other vendors as they closed up shop, passed by the blacksmith’s where Oswald was dampening his forge.

“Hey, mum!”

Walburga rushed over to embrace him, breathing in the woodsmoke of his sandy curls. “Good to see you, love.”

Oswald withdrew, grinning. “Berthe’s roasted a duck for supper, care to join us?”

Walburga studied her boy, his green eyes so like hers, the rough red of his cheeks, his skin streaked with soot and cinder. So sweet-natured and strong, so unlike his father. If she did disappear this night, she would carry this beloved sight with her into oblivion. She kissed his cheeks, not caring if she smudged her face.

“Mum, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, love,” Walburga replied. “And no, I have to meet someone at the inn tonight. I will catch up with you tomorrow.”

“Meet with someone?” Oswald began wiping his face with a cloth. “Who would that be?”

“Later,” Walburga assured him. “I have to go. Give my love to Berthe and the little ones.”

“Will do,” Oswald replied. “And give Klaus my regards.”

Klaus. _Oof._ Had Victor picked up on the resemblance yet? Agatha Adelbert had found herself with a sweet husband who held no appreciation for her physical charms (having more of a preference for certain gentlemen of the town), and the easy-going Hermann had been starved for any sort of affection and touch. The innkeeper’s parentage had been an open secret in the town, and no one blamed Hermann for seeking comfort away from his nightmare of a wife. Their union gave the Adelberts the child they had always wanted, and Fritz had been overjoyed to raise the boy as his own. Seeing Klaus grow up alongside her own son, Walburga wondered how different Victor’s fate could have been. Surely Hermann must have wondered that as well.

Klaus greeted her warmly at the entrance of the inn, welcoming her inside. That helped, a bit. Klaus had always been a good boy, a trustworthy soul. Surely he would not walk Walburga to her doom? Klaus guided her past the dining room where Victor’s strange companions were taking their meal, and down a hallway Walburga had not known existed. Klaus left her at the threshold and she stood in the darkened hallway, hand poised to knock. She listened to the murmur of conversation behind her, attempting to detect some clue of what awaited her. No such luck. Walburga took a deep breath, then knocked.

“Come in.”

Victor stood with his back to her, arms clasped behind him, his gaunt form silhouetted by flickering lamplight.

“Well, here I am,” Walburga began, refusing to be cowed. “What do you need of me?”

Victor turned, his face shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. Walburga inhaled in an attempt to puff herself up, raising herself to her full height (ridiculous, considering her crown would barely brush the tip of his long nose, but still…). He stepped over to her, looming, leaning in close enough that she could catch the pipesmoke and licorice on his breath.

“I need information.” Victor’s voice was barely above a whisper. “About Gilbert Falkenrath.”

Walburga’s pulse jumped, but she forced herself to keep her expectations low.

The cadence of her tone matched his. “And why would you think I, of all people, would have any information on him?”

“I believe that you have connections,” Victor continued. “People who have knowledge of the inner workings of the Falkenrath household?”

Walburga narrowly kept herself from swearing. She glared into that scarred, inscrutable visage.

“So now you are spying on me?” In the dim candlelight of the small chamber, Walburga’s eyes blazed in fury. “How dare you? And you would put that child in danger?”

“I do what I must.” Victor hissed. “And the child is already in danger, is she not? He freely boasts of using her, offers her to others like an after dinner mint. This will only continue if we do not act.”

She could not argue with that. There were nights Walburga went without sleep for worry of the poor girls forced to lodge with that cretin. Victor dangled a miracle before her, but would it come at a cost of Gerta’s blood, or her livelihood?

“The girl would be well-compensated, and would want for nothing for the rest of her days, if she be prudent with her coin,” Victor offered, as if reading her thoughts.

“And why involve me?” she asked. “Why not go directly to Gerta herself?”

“To whom do you think she would speak more freely?” Victor replied, and, watching the shadows dance across his craggy face, it was impossible to disagree. “I could, but I feel you would get the better result and keep the girl from fretting further at her post.”

Walburga nodded absently, pressing her fingers to her lips, pensive. “And then what? If she finds what you need, and Gilbert buys his way out of trouble like always?”

“Impossible.” Victor said flatly. “I am the authority on this case, and I cannot be bought, and nor will Johann. I just need one scrap of evidence to work with. It doesn’t even need to be concrete, I can twist it to suit my ends. He will not have a chance to appeal. I would get to work immediately, and no one would dare stand in my way.”

“I…I…I don’t know what to think, Victor.” Walburga murmured. “I do not want anyone hurt. I fear for Gerta. I fear for _you_.”

Victor chuckled. ‘You fear for _me?_ Have you any idea the horrors I have faced? The horrors I have _committed_? Daemons, liches, Norscan warlords, they have all fallen to my blade. You honestly believe a soft, spoiled popinjay like Falkenrath could stand a second against a monster like me? I am the unsparing hand of righteousness, the merciless scourge of the weak and immoral!”

This close, Walburga could see the grin spreading across his thin face, his one dark eye glittering with malice and delight. “He will face interrogation immediately, and I will draw his every sin from him like honey from a hive, and it will taste just as sweet.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear, the sibilance of his words gliding across her skin, sending shivers skating through the length of her body. “You can be in attendance, if you like, Walburga. You could even offer suggestions. It is very rare for a civilian to be privy to our techniques, but in your case I would make an exception.”

Light-headed, Walburga gritted her teeth to keep from trembling from…what, exactly? Horror? Yes, that was in attendance. As a Shallyan, she was avowed to heal, to prevent pain and suffering wherever possible. However…there was also fear, definitely, both of this frightening man and of the darkness he seemed to awaken within her. She did not particularly want to watch Gilbert Falkenrath flayed upon a slab, but there was a certain vicious satisfaction at the thought of it, a nasty molten joy at the notion of hearing him beg for mercy, as she had when she had been so young. And then the last, that which eclipsed the rest, that which disturbed her most of all…

They stood in the center of the quiet room, candlelight flickering, the world outside empty save for this chamber and the pair of them. His lips were at her ear again, and the earth tilted.

“I am at your disposal, Walburga. Say the word, and I shall be the instrument of your vengeance.”

Walburga was not sure how she stayed steady on her feet. He could have carried her over to the bed in the corner, and she would have screamed his name to the rafters in rapture. _This isn’t me_ , Walburga told herself. She was not one for revenge or violence. She had considered poisoning Gilbert on several occasions, but her code prevented her every time. But this man, this dangerous and cruel man… _like he knows how to take you apart like a puzzle and put you back together again, but sideways._ By Shallya, he probably could, and Walburga’s blood sang in her veins at the very thought of it.

She shook her head in an unsuccessful attempt to clear it, and fingered the sad little fabric flower Gerta had pinned to her gown. _It would be over_. It was not Walburga’s way, but it was not just her, was it? It was Gerta and all of the hapless girls over the years terrorized by that wretch.

Walburga forced herself to step back, and the air between them was suddenly bracing. Victor’s brow rose, but he said nothing, simply stared with that one dark eye, that gaze penetrating her straight through. Walburga made for the door, pausing as her hand caressed the handle.

“All right then.”


	12. The Kids Are Home

Gilbert Falkenrath was doomed. There was no question. However satisfying that fact was, it did not change that his fate was not the ultimate goal. Victor was convinced that the burgher was connected to his mission in some way, but he realized that it should have been a stepping stone to his main goal, not the destination. This was a problem. He needed to get his mind back to the task at hand.

Chewing absently upon a licorice root, Victor exited the chamber to the smoky dining room of the inn. Sienna shouted something undoubtedly lewd, but Victor paid her no mind and exited, the outside air surprisingly cool and invigorating. In the distance, he could see Walburga hurrying back to her bakery as quickly as one could without running. In his mind’s eye, he could not banish the image of her horrified expression as she had backed away from him. He’d frightened her. _Good_ , he assured himself, trying to ignore the despair this notion brought. _Excellent. She’d been getting a bit too familiar. Now she knows what I am: a killer, merciless and true._

He entered the chapterhouse and glanced about at the various hunters milling about there. Which of you are in Falkenrath’s pocket? Were they traitors as well, or merely ignorant? Unwilling to ponder it further that evening, Victor took to his room and retrieved his notes. Would he share his collaboration with Walburga tomorrow with Johann _? No. There is no need for him to be informed…yet._

The next day, Johann had assembled another troop of hunters and apprentices to search the woods. They set out for the forest to the north of town, beating bushes and searching under every leaf and branch. It was at once disheartening and deeply satisfying to see the elf fail to detect any sign of the creatures. While Victor would have much preferred to subdue their quarry, anything that punctured Kerillian’s arrogance was a rare and happy thing. They wandered for hours, until reaching a still and silent grove…

Sienna stopped, raising her hand. “Wait…”

“What is it, witch?”

Sienna took a deep breath. “There’s something to this. I can feel the Winds of Ulgu blowing strong here.”

“Shadow magic?” Victor replied, proceeding to rampage through the glade, smacking branches and stabbing at air. “So it is here?”

“As if you could break the spell, One-Eye,” Kerillian spat. “Though I must admit your antics are rather entertaining. Mayfly magic playing tricks must be why it eluded me..”

“He could possibly break the spell if it were weak,” Sienna corrected. “But this one isn’t. The Wind is so thick you can almost touch it. We need an expert to puzzle this out. Where would Olesya be this time of year?”

“Hmm…” Victor pondered. “Olesya was making noise about returning to Kislev, but she may have stuck close to Lohner in Altdorf. I shall send word, and hopefully they will respond in a timely fashion. In the meantime,” he addressed the witch hunters. “I believe that this area should be guarded in case anything emerges. If there is any unusual activity, get back to town immediately and alert the captain. I will make sure Captain Weber sends a relief patrol in a few hours. In the meantime,” Victor turned back to Sienna, Kerillian, and Bardin. “We should return to town. I want to get the missive out as soon as possible.”

The journey back was uneventful, save a side trip to the Vogel farm to inform the newly awakened Markus of their progress.

“Olesya, eh?” Markus frowned. “Agh, I was hoping to have seen the back of that dirty old lady!”

“Aye, she did take a shine to you, didn’t she?” Bardin laughed. “Seemed to enjoy watching you spar in the training grounds.”

“Kept telling me to take off my tunic,” Markus grumbled. “’Is hot, isn’t it, Markus? Perhaps you should go without shirt…’ Bloody uncomfortable, it was! Made me feel like a chunk of meat.”

“Can’t say I blame her, wasn’t a bad sight,” Sienna added, winking.

“Oh, not you too, Sienna!” Markus groused. “Makes me right…what’s the word… _self-conscious_.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sienna chuckled. “Have to say, though, I doubt your shepherdess over there would complain at the sight.”

Sienna inclined her head toward Kirstin, who was busily dumping feed into troughs.

“She’s not mine. I mean,” Markus, now bright red, rubbed the back of his head. “I’m just helping out here. I’m more hers, I mean, as long as she needs me. To _stand guard_ , I mean, not… _agh_ …”

“Oh, fer…” Kerillian broke in as Sienna and Bardin dissolved into snickers. “Are we here for a _reason_ , mayflies?”

“We have informed the Sergeant of our findings,” Victor replied. “So I think we are finished debriefing. I am going to…”

“Right,” Kerillian interrupted. “I’m going back to keep an eye on that spot in the woods. I’m sure I can find _something_ …”

The elf skipped off back toward the forest with nary a further word. The others glanced at each other, shrugging.

“I believe I’ll stay here,” Markus stated, glancing back in Kirstin’s direction. “Just in case of any attacks. Maybe help out, since the farmhand’s too spooked to return, the blighter.”

“Don’t know about you lot, then, but I’m hungry.” Sienna mounted her horse. “I’m heading back for lunch.”

“Good idea, Zharrin,” Bardin agreed, heaving up to his saddle. “I’ll join you.”

Victor lingered behind, waiting to speak with Markus privately. The soldier looked at him askance, perhaps bracing himself for what was to come.

“Sir?” Markus ventured warily.

“I feel the need to speak with you, Sergeant,” Victor began. “I cannot help but notice your devotion to the charming shepherdess there.”

“Now, Sir…” Markus started, but Victor held up a silencing hand.

“Let me say my piece,” Victor continued. “There is nothing wrong with your interest so long as your intentions are true. However, I must remind you of your primary purpose here. If you believe that you are more effective in this venue, then fair enough, but when I need to summon you, I need your resolve undivided.”

“Of course, Sir, I…”

Victor raised his hand once more. “The survival of this town could very well count upon us. If we falter, it could fall to ruin just like Ussingen. Would you see this farm in that state?”

Markus’ eyes grew fierce. “That will not happen. You need not remind me of the stakes, Sir.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Victor replied. “I understand that you had previously attempted to retire and were rebuffed. After all of your efforts, you have more than earned it. If you would prefer to stay in my employ, of course I would be pleased, and I believe you may be due a raise. However, if not, I would be happy to ensure your honorable discharge. Just remember, this mission comes first.”

Markus’ mouth fell open. “I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Sir!”

Victor nodded, mounting his horse. “We will return in the morning. Keep a sharp eye, Sergeant.”

“As always, Sir.”

Once he arrived back in town, Victor made straight for the scribe, dashed off a note to Franz Lohner, and handed it over for delivery. Once finished, he walked out into the road only to have to dodge a gaudy carriage bearing down upon him. Irked, he followed it around the corner where it stopped in front of the Falkenrath manor. Studying the carriage, Victor was amazed it had not been waylaid and despoiled by bandits en route. It was a shining behemoth, lacquered dove grey and accented with metallic whorls of silver and dotted with what looked to be diamonds. The driver hurried around to open the door, and a large man in his mid-thirties stepped out. He was, unquestionably, a Falkenrath son. The man bore the same prominent brow and prominent overbite as Gilbert, and carried himself in much the same pompous manner. His slicked-back brown helmet of hair shone in the noonday sun, and his velvet surcoat strained to contain his outsize belly. Another man emerged from the coach, this one with the same overbite and brow, but slightly younger, gangly and blond. He sneered at the driver, saying something which seemed to make the coachman bow and fold his hands in supplication. They were both distracted by the last passenger descending from the carriage. She was a sight to behold, tall, graceful, carrying herself with an elegance and dignity that seemed beyond the two men. The woman was dressed much in the manner of the carriage, all grey silks and silver embroidery. Her blonde tresses were swept up into a complicated coif, and her sharp-featured face surveyed the surroundings. Victor reflexively leaned back into the shadows to avoid detection, but she did not seem to notice. There was enough of a resemblance to link her parentage with the two men, but she seemed to have avoided their more unfortunate features. _Must take after the mother_. The trio were greeted by a nervous-looking Gilbert, who hustled them into the manor.

_Interesting_.

*

  
Victor exited the chapterhouse, a crew of witch hunters following behind to relieve the ones guarding in the woods. The market having been cleared of most people, Victor could see Walburga leaning over her stall, having a leisurely conversation with Sienna. _Oh holy hell_ … Victor considered stealth, hiding in the shadows of a nearby building behind to eavesdrop, but he knew that if Sienna caught him he would never hear the end of it. He charged over, Walburga’s eyebrows raising at the sight of him.

“I suppose you’ve been filling the baker’s ears with all sorts of impropriety and filth about me,” Victor grumbled at Sienna as he approached.

“Believe it or not, Victor, the world doesn’t begin and end with you,” Sienna replied tartly. “Besides, you would actually have to do something _interesting_ for me to tell some truly fun stories…”

“She was actually telling me all about Tilea,” Walburga explained, a wistful cast to those river-kissed eyes. “It sounds so _dangerous_ and exotic…”

“And full of vipers and poisoners,” Sienna finished for her. “I keep trying to impart that it was not a pleasant place to be!”

“But the food!” Walburga enthused. “Every once in a while we get a merchant through who carries cinnamon, saffron, cardamom…I spend all my coin on it, and it’s worth it. One whiff, and I am transported…”

“Yes, the food was decent, but it was awful!” Sienna replied heatedly.

“Awful and _exciting_ , though!” Walburga replied, leaning her chin upon her hand. “Here, it’s just…awful.”

“Trust me when I tell you that ‘exciting’ in our realm tends toward ‘nightmarish’ rather than ‘enchanting,’” Victor added. “Relative safety is a value beyond measure.”

“Much as I hate to agree with this one, he’s right,” Sienna agreed. “The things we’ve seen would curl your hair right up…well, more so, anyway.”

“But it’s not always terrible, is it?” Walburga asked Sienna. “I mean, you’re a woman on your own, free to go anywhere, do anything, beholden to no one…”

“Not entirely true,” Sienna corrected. “Need I remind you of how Victor made my acquaintance?”

“Fair enough, but it worked out, didn’t it?” Walburga continued. “Anyway, would you trade in that life for a nice, quiet existence; doing the same thing day-in, day-out?”

“Oh god, I’d kill myself,” Sienna blurted, and Walburga flinched as if slapped. The wizard immediately tried to backtrack, uncharacteristically stumbling over her words. “I mean, it’s not a bad life at all, and, honestly, I envy those who can have a regular life and as Victor said, it’s a damn good thing these days...”

“Set down the shovel, Sienna,” Victor muttered to the witch.

“Mmmm…” Walburga nodded distantly, trying and failing to return the cheer to her voice. “I haven’t given you your treat yet, have I?”

“Treat?” Sienna asked.

The baker slipped back inside for a few moments. She returned with a small sniffle and a bag brimming with light, fragrant biscuits. “That merchant I mentioned gave me this recipe. Don’t know if I did it right, but hopefully you’ll enjoy it.”

“Lady, what is this for?” Sienna asked, stunned.

“For your stories,” Walburga replied quietly. “I know you’re busy, but you’ve been taking time from your days to talk to me, and I truly appreciate it.”

“I…I…” Sienna stared at the bag dumbly. “I don’t know what to say…”

“You say ‘thank you,’” Victor cut in. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to speak with the baker privately.”

It was a prime moment for Sienna to toss out some lewd innuendo or lascivious suggestion, but the wizard was too overwhelmed by the gift to seize it. Victor briskly ushered Walburga inside before Sienna could recover.

“So,” Walburga asked, subdued and hesitant. “What did you need from me?”

“I noticed a disgustingly ostentatious carriage barreling through town..”

“Ah yes,” Walburga replied. “The kids are home. Blasted coach nearly ran down my neighbor’s daughter. Never good when that lot are at large here.”

“Can you give me information about them? Any reason why they would be visiting now in particular?” Victor asked.

“Hard to say.” Walburga began pummeling a lump of dough. “They won’t be arriving out of nostalgia for Senden or dear old Papa, I’ll tell you that for nothing. And it’s rare that they all arrive together, they hate each other.” Walburga paused. “Yes, come to think of it, it _is_ really strange. I definitely don’t envy the Falkenrath staff tonight.”

She sprinkled a handful of flour upon the board and began to flatten the dough with a pin. “So, there’s Gilbert Jr., or ‘Gilly.’” Walburga shuddered in revulsion. “A copy of his foul father in basically every way. Girl show up in a family way? Weren’t him, and if you keep talkin’ your house might get burnt. Someone get drunk with his mates and piss in the well? At least we’d get a new well, and one of the mates gets paid to take the fall. Bastard loved to drive sheep into the lake outside of town and laugh while they drowned. Papa paid for the new sheep, at least. Can only imagine what he’s getting up to in Carroburg.”

_The world won’t miss that one_ , Victor thought.

“The lanky blond is Axel, bitterness incarnate,” Walburga continued. “He thinks he should be the heir to…whatever the hell business it is they do. Smarter and less awful on the surface than Gilly, but there’s something ‘bout him that ices my blood. Back in 2505, the miller’s little girl went missing. Never found. But my friend Franka swears the last time she saw the little mite, kid was toddling off hand-in-hand with Axel. Can’t say nothing, of course. Who would listen? Few years later, same thing with the tanner’s girl. Disappeared one day, never found. Few years later, another little one, again, no one knows for sure.” Walburga whacked the dough with the pin so hard Victor feared the board would crack. “Reminds me, I’ll need to take Oswald and his aside and tell them to steer clear. Think he knows, but still.”

Victor was practically salivating at the prospect of interrogating Axel. _I’ll make that last for days_ … _weeks, perhaps_ …

“Finally, Gretchen, the jewel, apple of daddy’s eye, fucking queen of Senden.” Walburga paused, suddenly looking very tired. “She likes your new puppy? It’s Gretchen’s puppy now. Never mind the poor thing starves when she forgets to feed it after a week. She likes your hair? Oh, daddy will compensate you for when it’s shorn for her new wig. You don’t get to refuse.” Walburga unconsciously at a stray tendril. “Whatever Gretchen wants, Gretchen gets. Except Oswald. Chit decided that she wanted to dally with my boy, but he rebuffed her. She vowed to bring down fire and brimstone, and the only thing that saved us was Gilbert’s knowing his parentage. It was surprising to find that even he has limits.” Walburga pondered a moment. “I think that’s the only time she ever heard the word ‘no.’ From what I gather, she married some high-up official in Altdorf.”

Walburga gave up all pretense of rolling the dough and turned to regard Victor straight on. The dim light of the kitchen deepened the shadows under her eyes, and she swayed on her feet, clutching the cutting board for balance. Victor reached out to steady her, but she raised a forbidding hand, shaking her head.

“You’re exhausted,” he said.

“Well spotted,” Walburga replied dryly. “This complicates things, doesn’t it? The extra connections, the extra players?”

“Complicates?” A wicked laugh brewed in Victor’s throat, grew, escaped his mouth as a sharp cackle. “Walburga, my dear, this only simplifies things. Hunting these creatures in their home territory would have taken weeks, if not months. Now? They are consolidated, clustered. I can cut out this infection all at once.”

Walburga gazed at him in weary disbelief. “I’m so tired, Victor. Most of the time I can pretend things are all right, but sometimes…I just get so bloody tired.”

Victor had the oddest urge to enfold her into his arms, let her rest for a moment, her face still upon his breast. Odd, as empathy was not something that came naturally to him, a disease to which he’d considered himself immune. Yet, here it was, tagging along with that wretched sadness. His arm twitched…

He was rescued by Karin calling for ‘Miss Burga.’ Walburga snapped out of her pall, straightened up, and forced a smile.

“Gerta should be by tomorrow,” Walburga told Victor as she made her way for the door. “She usually comes by around noon, so any time after that should work.”

She paused at the threshold, pressing her forehead to the door.

“God, the poor thing, having to deal with the whole motley crew,” Walburga breathed. “Shallya bless her. Victor…”

She looked up, her eyes bright.

“I hope you work quickly.”


	13. In Which Victor Is a Smooth Operator Indeed

When Victor entered the chapterhouse that evening, he was immediately met by an apprentice informing him that Captain Weber awaited Victor’s presence in his office. Victor couldn’t help but notice a buzz of excitement in the air, the various hunters chatting animatedly amongst themselves.

“So,” Johann began as Victor entered the room, shutting the door behind him. “We have been invited to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Victor asked. “Is ‘we’ just the Order, or my companions as well?”

“Nothing against your comrades, but I want to be sure that we don’t make any waves,” Johann replied. “Yet.”

“I take it this involves the Falkenrath brood?” Victor asked.

“Very astute,” Johann observed quietly. “I should have expected that you would have been following the burgher.”

Victor inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, managing to keep his temper reined in.

“And you want to know why Gilbert was allowed to run rampant for so long,” Johann continued wearily.

“For starters.”

Johann sighed heavily, pouring himself a glass of wine. “The ratmen were only part of why I summoned you here. I didn’t believe that they were a credible threat and was honestly surprised when your investigation bore fruit. No…”

Johann took a deep draught of the vintage. “I was always distracted by the more traditional cases, Slaan cults, beastmen, the usual, and it kept me well busy. When I realized just how far Gilbert had wormed his way into our local chapter, it was too late. He’d donate huge sums of coin, and we didn’t question. Our interrogation chamber is state-of-the art. Our apprentices here eat like captains elsewhere. Senden’s chapterhouse rivals any in the Empire, and I’m including larger cities. I have tried to keep amenities as simple as possible, but I am also aware the certain hunters have received gifts and favors from the good burgher. There are also various fetes throughout the year in which the Falkenrath household becomes a celebration for his preferred templars.”

“And are there _any_ honest hunters in Senden?” Victor demanded hoarsely, remembering to quiet his voice at the last moment. “I can understand the mundane guards being susceptible to material temptation, but _our Order?_ It’s not as if Falkenrath’s corruption is difficult to spot. Johann! He should have been curbed _decades_ ago.”

Johann leaned forward upon his desk, threading his fingers through his hair, palms pressed to his eyes. “Victor…I have never been a good captain. I am… _was_ …an excellent templar. Warrior. Daemon slayer. I cared not for teaching or managing. I’m guessing that’s why you have not settled in a permanent location as well. You should have made captain ages ago.”

“You know very well why they denied me my promotion,” Victor spat. “It was _not_ because I am incapable.”

“I know, but tell me, Victor?” Johann replied. “What is it that you crave? Is it devoting your efforts toward the next generation, or is it personally waging war against Chaos? Which is more satisfying? Is it the bureaucracy or the hunt?”

Victor went silent. He could not deny it. He inwardly quailed at the thought of being chained to a desk for the rest of his life.

“I know you have been judging me, and I bloody well deserve it,” Johann continued. “But I want you to succeed where I have failed. You need not be sequestered completely to Senden, but you would need to keep a better eye upon it. You cannot be blinded by the allure of distant glories, lest you end up like this pitiful mess before you. An old has-been who has put down many a monster, who has a roomful of accolades and trophies, but has left an entire region ripe for infiltration. It is shameful, Victor, and I need you to see what is important. I need you to look to the future. Even if you do decide to move on from Senden, you need to know that this is what being a captain is about.”

Victor nodded, reflecting. He accepted Johann’s offer of wine and sipped it slowly, swirling it around in his mouth, savoring its lush bitterness, its weight.

“But to answer one of your questions, yes, some of our number have proven less susceptible to Falkenrath’s sway. Anneke Flansberg, for one, and her partner Erwin Forsberg. Jens Schumann shows great promise. Reminds me a bit of you at a similar age, though perhaps not as grim.”

Victor smiled. “I remember that one. Yes, he showed great bravery in the face of the ratmen.”

“So we are not completely without faithful, and I do not believe that the ones currently enjoying Falkenrath’s favor are beyond rehabilitation. They have not been truly tested, and I have not been running them through their proper paces. I have allowed them to grow soft. That is why I need you, Victor.” Johann caught Victor’s eye, his face alight with determination, and for the first time since he had arrived Victor could see the old Johann, the brave one, shining through. “My glories are long past, and I have been too lenient, too lax. No one could accuse you of those faults, Victor. You are the Champion of Ubersreik, the Savior of Helmgart. That carries weight. Under you, they will fall into line. The Senden Chapter could be truly great! But first, we must remove the Falkenrath threat.”

“I take it you have a plan?” Victor responded, trying and failing to keep Johann’s praise from going to his head.

“I am interested in _yours_ ,” Johann replied. “I know that you have been consulting the baker, which seems like a decent gambit thus far. Walburga knows everything about everyone in town.” Johann chuckled at Victor’s grimace. “Come now, Victor, you haven’t exactly been discreet. Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone else has divined your true intentions. At the moment, it simply seems that you’re sweet on her.”

Victor’s frown deepened. “ _Agh_ …right. I suppose I shall have to be stealthier.”

“Yes, especially after tomorrow night,” Johann grinned, clearly enjoying Victor’s discomfort. “Gilbert is fairly oblivious, but I would keep an eye on Axel and Gretchen. They are a bit more astute, especially the daughter.”

“Tomorrow night?” Victor replied. “That is when the Falkenraths are throwing their big affair?”

Johann nodded. “You know the drill. Make nice. Get information. I know that you must be itching to drag them all to the interrogation chamber, but we _must_ find get evidence first. I want my templars to see for themselves what the Falkenraths truly are. I want them to learn, and to henceforth be on guard against corruption.”

“Fair enough,” Victor replied. “Tell me what you know.”

*

“A toast to my three magnificent children! Working wonders in the big city, and now have returned home to Papa’s breast!” Gilbert Falkenrath crowed, squeezing his daughter’s shoulders with a brocade-swathed arm. Gretchen Falkenrath smiled stiffly and twisted her hand into a regal wave.

“Hear, hear!” Gilly yelled, sloshing his glass of brandy over the marble floor.

The dining room was far larger than Victor remembered, though the last time he had seen it he’d just turned ten-years-old. Gerhard Falkenrath, the previous burgher, had invited the Saltzpyre family to dinner after Hermann’s completion of a special commission. Hermann was expected to deliver the piece, an exquisitely wrought eyesore of a flamberge, an insane baroque dream of filigree and gold swirl and Araby steel. It was not even remotely battleworthy (it had a basket-hilt, _for Sigmar’s sake_ ), so it was for the best that Gerhard could barely lift it, let alone wield it. Gerhard was so proud to design such a monstrosity that he decided to celebrate with an unveiling for all of the personages of note in town (it had been a short list, but still). Victor’s father was mortified by the thing. Victor remembered him alternately laughing hysterically or swearing blind while Hermann forged it, the blacksmith shaking his head in disbelief that anyone would want such a useless, ridiculous affair. The commission was just as ridiculous, though, enough gold to keep them fed and clothed for almost two years. So Hermann finished it, made it as gaudy and intricate as possible, and Gerhard was overjoyed. The unveiling dinner, however, had been a disaster. Gerhard stumbled and dropped the sword, Gilbert insisted upon tossing pennies at the back of Victor’s head, and Sieglinde set to howling “Heresy!” at a posh merchant she thought she’d heard mention Myrmidia. Thus, the family Saltzpyre was politely ejected from the premises within the first hour.

That very same flamberge was mounted upon the wall in the dining room, but Victor was currently receiving a very different reception. He strode grandly into the heavily refurbished and extended Falkenrath manor beside Johann, both clad in their formal ebony and gold uniforms. The effect was enough that everyone in attendance quieted and took notice, some even rising to their feet. Much as Victor despised everything about the Falkenrath residence and its owners, he couldn’t help but admit that he greatly enjoyed that entrance.

The air was heavy with pipesmoke and costly perfumes, the rustling of silks and satins, the chipper tunes of minstrels twanging in the corner. The witch hunters preened and strutted, the Falkenraths and local well-to-do fawning upon them. Gilbert himself greeted the captains, though, showing particular favor to the Champion of Ubersreik. Gilbert wrapped his arm around Victor’s shoulders and steered him to the center of the room, loudly introducing his dear childhood friend.

_Victor approached the bakery, where he saw a plump and pretty girl of about thirteen years selling bread to the locals. She had a cheerful mien, fluffy, tawny waves framing a dimpled, comely face; sparkling green eyes smiling as she handed over her wares._

_“Walburga!”_

_That friendly expression vanished in an instant. The girl’s face fell, turned sour as the villagers turned almost as one to scowl at the boy who had addressed her._

_She turned to grab another loaf for a waiting customer. “I have not changed my mind, Victor. I don’t ever want to talk to you again. EVER. Leave me alone.”_

_“Please, let me explain,” Victor pleaded. “I didn’t know…”_

_“Oy, look who dares show his ugly mug at the bakery!” A strapping young man strode forward, looming over Victor. “It’s the peeping pervert!”_

_Victor’s skinny face flushed purple. “That was not my intent and you know it, Gilbert. Walburga, he told me it was cultists by the riverbank, he did! I had no idea, I swear on Sigmar’s lungs…”_

_“You can swear on whatever part of Sigmar you want.” Gilbert spat over his shoulder. “We all know what you did, pervert.”_

_Victor’s fists were clenched at his sides, and he quivered with rage. “Take. That. Back.”_

_Gilbert poked Victor so harshly in the chest that Victor nearly cried out. By evening, the spot would bloom purple and blue. Nonetheless, the smaller boy did not budge._

_“Nobody wants you here, you nosy…” Gilbert punctuated each descriptor with another jab._

_“Freakish…”_

_*poke*_

_“Disgusting…”_

_*poke*_

_“Perv-“_

_Before Gilbert could finish, Victor lost all self-control. Victor pelted the brute with a flurry of punches to the solar plexus, then launched himself at Gilbert, knocking the stunned teenager to the ground. From seemingly nowhere Victor produced a small knife and placed it by Gilbert’s nostril. The crowd gasped in shock, and Walburga screamed, pleading with Victor to stop._

_“Take it back!” Victor’s normally shrill voice waxed in intensity._

_“I…I..” Gilbert stammered._

_“TAKE IT BACK!”_

Victor enjoyed that he now towered over Gilbert, smirking down upon the fop as Gilbert extolled the witch hunter’s many virtues. Victor was surprised by how easily he could set aside his hatred for Gilbert, seal it into a tidy compartment and store it in the back of his consciousness. Praise and cloying nostalgia, claims of adolescent worship of the teenage Gilbert fell from Victor’s thin lips like gems upon Gilbert’s brow, and Victor knew that he would lay awake later, disgusted with himself and orchestrating plans to make Falkenrath pay for the performance. But for now, it worked, and worked well. Victor was the belle of the ball, as it were. When Gilbert excused himself to relieve himself, Gretchen smoothly took her father’s place, regarding Victor with an appraising eye.

“Those are some fascinating tales you were spinning there, Captain,” she smiled. “I wonder how much of them were true. I do not remember my father possessing any particular fight prowess, myself, though you do look to be a skillful man in a skirmish.”

Victor chuckled. “Well, one does try to embellish on behalf of a good host. It is only the polite thing to do, isn’t it?” When Gretchen favored him with a tinkling laugh, he continued. “I assure you that my account of the battles was accurate, though I cut back on the more disturbing aspects of the conflict. It does not make for good party discourse if the guests have to run off to be sick.”

“Good call,” Gretchen replied, extending a silver lace-clad hand. “Though I have a stronger stomach than most, and I doubt I would be similarly cowed. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. I am Lady Gretchen von Biernbaum, nee Falkenrath, of course.”

Victor gallantly bent to kiss her hand, trying not to choke on the thick scent of tuberose. “Ah, and which lucky Biernbaum is your husband? I may have met him.”

Gretchen giggled again, pressing her fingertips to her insubstantial cleavage. “That would be Bastian von Biernbaum.”

Victor had met him, briefly, at a Count’s fete in Altdorf some years back. Walburga had greatly overestimated the lordling’s importance. Victor remembered the stooped, nervous young man who fidgeted next to a ficus plant the whole night and coughed incessantly whenever anyone spoke to him. Unsurprising that he’d be browbeaten into marrying a burgher’s brat from a backwater forest town.

“I do remember him!” Victor replied. “Upon making his acquaintance, he struck me as a quiet, thoughtful gentleman.”

“Indeed,” Gretchen replied. “Though I must admit that I am glad to have left him at home. He does despise parties, journeys, anything fun…”

“So what does bring such a dazzling jewel of Altdorf back to the humble hamlet of Senden?” Victor flattered, and Gretchen practically glowed in response. “I would think that you have far outgrown this village.”

She certainly looked out of place, her panniered gown gleaming silver and periwinkle, her improbably tall coif plumed with white feathers, and diamonds, diamonds everywhere. She was certainly attractive, beautiful even, but there was a lacquered hardness to her looks, as if the wrong expression could cause everything to shatter.

“Just helping Father our with a minor bit of business,” Gretchen replied. “I suppose he wanted me to pick up Gilly and Axel just so that they don’t feel left out, they do tend to sulk, but I fear that I am the only one with any actual acumen here.”

“I believe that.” Victor smirked, observing Gilly singing loudly near the minstrels, and then Axel skulking in one of the corners, furiously taking notes in a little moleskine journal. “Sorry, I suppose that was unkind to your brothers.”

Gretchen grinned. “No, that is entirely justified. And anyway, what about you? Father tells me that you may be up to take over the chapterhouse in Altdorf. What brings you back here?”

It seemed that Gilbert had greatly overestimated Victor’s influence within the Order, and Victor mentally sent a prayer of gratitude to Sigmar for it. Victor was lucky to have been awarded his position at all, let alone take over one of the most important houses in the Empire, but he wasn’t about to disabuse her of that notion. “I am considering Altdorf, but Nuln has been clamoring for my steady leadership as well,” Victor lied. “It will be a difficult decision, I have to say. But for now, Captain Weber has called me back for a personal favor, and, out of sentiment I have returned.”

“And you travel with some colorful characters,” Gretchen offered, clearly angling for more information.

“Colorful indeed,” Victor grumbled. “They have their uses. It takes all sorts to combat Chaos, it turns out, but once I settle they will be left to their own devices, scattered to the winds without my influence.”

“Well…” Gretchen rubbed the fabric of Victor’s sleeve between thumb and forefinger. “I should hope that perhaps you choose Altdorf. I had tried to appeal to my husband to befriend the Order there, but he has failed miserably thus far. If you should take the reins, not only our great city would benefit from your strength and experience, but the Order would benefit from the friendship of the von Biernbaum family. We are friends…” Gretchen paused to soulfully bat her silver-lined hazel eyes. “…are we not?”

_Yes, the Order of Silver Hammer will finally exalt itself to the heavens thanks to the favor of a throwaway von Biernbaum son and his small town wife._ “I should count myself very fortunate for such a… _ah_ … _connection_.”

“I am glad that we are in agreement,” Gretchen replied, leaning in close enough that Victor could smell the heavy aroma of brandy on her breath. “And even gladder that I have come home to Senden, Captain.”

“Victor, please.” Victor quickly realized that he could take advantage of this rather unusual situation. “Tell me, Lady von Biernbaum. Would you do me the kindness of giving me a proper tour of Falkenrath Manor? I have yet to be able to appreciate the extravagance of this place. I was going to ask your father, but I believe that it would be a far more pleasant exercise with your charming self.”

“Well, Victor, if we are going to drop the formalities, I must insist that you call me ‘Gretchen.’” Gretchen offered her arm. “And I would be honored. Where shall we start? Upstairs?”

“I was thinking,” Victor replied, worrying that perhaps he was overplaying his hand. “That I would be far more interested in the secret depths of the Manor. What say you?”

A wicked smile played upon Gretchen’s fuchsia-painted lips. “That sounds delightful.”

Arm in arm, they quietly exited the dining room, their exit noticed but not remarked upon. Victor was shocked at his luck thus far. He’d never been much for flirting, but it seemed that Gretchen was power-hungry enough to pick up the slack for him. He’d originally been planning on working upon the bitter younger brother for information, but the social-climbing sister was proving far more forthcoming. He noticed she swayed a bit while she walked, and Victor wondered just how much spirit she had consumed thus far.

Gretchen led him to the kitchens, where the staff were frantically preparing the next courses. Victor spied a bottle of Von Saponateim’s Delight upon one of the cutting boards and grabbed it in passing, offering it to Gretchen.

“My, my!” Gretchen giggled, uncorking the bottle, taking a deep draught, and handing it back to Victor. “Father told me that Senden hunters were much more fun, but I thought he was exaggerating!”

“We have our moments,” he replied, knocking back the bottle but spitting the contents back into it. “I have to say, this is all very mundane thus far.”

“Just you wait.” Gretchen led him away from the kitchens and down a darkened hallway, to several storage rooms. “This is where Father keeps his tobacco collection, if you would like to take some. This room is the collection of Father’s brandy and various spirits…” She grabbed the bottle from Victor’s hand and took another slug. “And there is his smoking chamber, where he has all sorts of jerky, but…” Another draught. “Let me show you something special…”

Gretchen pulled Victor around another corner, and told him to turn around. “There’s a code.”

He did so, but peeked over his shoulder as she worked. Gretchen’s fingers traced little designs over the handle, wisps of smoke trailing from each gesture. Victor looked back, struck by shock and elation. _How could she be so careless?_

“You can turn around now.” Gretchen opened the door, a heavy iron affair, with a certain amount of difficulty. A staircase led down, the stone passage lit by sconces lining the walls. Victor followed behind as Gretchen shimmered in the darkened hallway, skipping ahead, sipping freely from the brandy all the while. She stopped in front of another door, this one silver, engraved with swirling designs. Gretchen took a last draught from the bottle and tossed it behind her, where it crashed upon the stone floor. She didn’t even bother hiding her actions this time.

“Papa has a proper key, but I like doing this the fun way.” Gretchen’s fingers followed long-remembered turns, smoke rose yet again, and the door creaked open. “I don’t often get to have much fun, Victor, but I take my chances where I can.”

Victor gasped. Blue flames rose from various torches around the chamber, illuminating a storeroom filled nearly to the brim with countless precious gems, piles upon piles upon piles of them. Gretchen scooped up two handfuls and dribbled them over her face and bodice.

“How on earth…” Victor murmured.

“Shhhhhh…” She lay back upon one of the glittering mounds, pressing her finger to her lips. “Family secret.”

“This is very trusting,” Victor observed, trying to ignore Gretchen throwing her head back and skimming her fingers through the gems.

“Well, we _are_ friends, aren’t we?” Gretchen lifted her head, her formerly perfect coif now sprouting more than a few stray tendrils. “Being a friend of the Falkenraths has certain advantages.” She began to unlace the silk ribbons in her bodice. “Being _my_ friend has even more.”

Victor raised his eyebrow. “Don’t you fear discovery?”

“Don’t you find it exciting?”

Victor had not anticipated things going this far. He was accustomed to marks attempting to seduce him, and it was never difficult rebuffing them. He’d had no time for dallying in general, and _especially_ none for heretics who would attempt to use him for their own purposes. Gretchen was no different, even worse considering the crimes she had committed against Walburga. Victor was not unprepared for such situations, though. Thus far, he was able to avoid further compromise with one particular act. He desperately hoped that it would work this time.

“One moment,” Victor said, clumsily plucking his glass eye from the socket. He spat upon it, rubbed it upon his sleeve, and pressed it back in with an audible “pop.”

Judging from Gretchen’s nauseated expression, it was successful this time as well. It seemed the brandy was about to repeat upon her, and she convulsed as if holding back a retch.

“Now, where were we?” Victor stepped forward, his mouth pulling back into an unctuous rictus.

“Oh. Oh god. Actually,” Gretchen stammered. “I think you’re right, Victor. I think I heard something upstairs. We don’t really want to get caught. Perhaps another time.”

“Oh, are you sure?” Victor pretended disappointment, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“I fear that I may have had a bit too much brandy,” Gretchen slurred, reaching her hand out.

Victor pulled her to her feet. “You should probably retie that.” He gestured to her bodice.

Gretchen giggled again. “Right. So. Now that you know this, I need you to remember that this is our secret.”

“I shall guard it like the treasure it is,” Victor replied, distracted, casting his eyes past the room and further down the darkened corridor. “Where does _that_ lead?”

“You ask too many questions, Victor,” Gretchen replied shakily. “Nothing good, trust me. Nothing you’d ever want to see. Come on.”

Victor reluctantly followed her, realizing that he’d gotten all he needed for the night, much more than he’d expected when he’d arrived. Gretchen turned suddenly, grasped Victor’s hand, and poured a small pile of gems into it.

“Shhhh…” She whispered. “Remember, it’s a secret. You’ve seen it. There’s more where this is from if we play nice.”

“Of course,” Victor replied, patting her hand. “Our little secret.”

“You’re a good friend.”

She led him back, through the kitchens, where Victor noticed Gerta busily chopping carrots. The maid’s eyes widened at the sight of the disheveled Gretchen leading the witch hunter back from the secluded depths of the manor. _Oh damn, bloody hell, and blast!_ It shouldn’t have bothered him, knowing that this would get back to Walburga, but…

They reached the dining room, where they blended in easily with the still mingling guests, their presence apparently not missed. Johann suddenly appeared beside Victor, patting his shoulder.

“Dear lady,” Johann addressed Gretchen. “I fear that I must tear my protégé away from you for now.”

“Very well,” Gretchen replied airily, already distracted by the tower of champagne that had been erected in their absence. “It was wonderful meeting you, Victor. Have a good night.”

“So,” Johann began in a low voice. “Have we been having a productive night?”

“Very,” Victor muttered. “Extremely enlightening. Any chance we can get the hell out of here?”

“Sigmar’s teeth, yes,” Johann replied, already heading for the door.

The party being in full swing and its attendees occupied by the various distractions therein, Johann and Victor were able to slip out unnoticed into the cool night.

“Thank bloody Sigmar that’s over!” Johann laughed as they reached the chapterhouse. “Good god, you cast quite a spell upon the daughter.”

“I believe that cheap brandy did the heavy lifting on that front,” Victor replied, grinning. “That and a certain amount of good fortune. My god, but she was careless!”

“Even so, you’ve accomplished a great deal,” Johann replied. “You must feel good about that.”

“I feel disgusting.” Victor shuddered. “Before anything else, I’m having one of the apprentices draw me a bath.”


	14. Treats and Treachery

Axel Falkenrath glanced about the dusty streets of Senden, sticky-faced child in tow. This hunt had proven far more difficult than the others. He had left no clues, no traces, and yet somehow the Senden matriarchs knew to keep their little ones close, eyeing him warily as he approached. His fine clothes and aristocratic mien didn’t even help. He noted this, vowed to dress a bit more casual next time. He hated that there would need to be a next time, but it was sadly necessary. Every five years. The Falkenrath fortune depended upon it.

The child, whose name Axel had already forgotten, began to squirm and fidget, and Axel assured her that if she behaved he would shower her in sweets. He’d meant it, too. When Axel brought the girls to the basement, he provided them with a room brimful of every sugary delight he could find. Axel wanted them to experience luxury at least once in their miserable, short lives. He wasn’t a _monster_ , after all.

When Gilbert Falkenrath had summoned his sons to his parlor for a meeting those twenty years past, neither could have ever imagined what he’d had in store. They had found him slumped over a bottle of grain alcohol, clammy and pale.

_“I realize that I am asking a great deal,” Gilbert said. “But we can become wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. And with that money, we can counteract the deed, right? If we donate heavily to the local Order, it will even out.”_

_Gilly, half-drunk already, grabbed his father’s spirits. “I dunno, Papa. I guess…”_

_Axel knew that this was his moment. It was a grim job which required precision, subtlety, and cleverness; three qualities Axel’s oaf of a brother lacked. It was a horrible task to be sure, but Axel could show that he was capable; more so than Gilly. Gilly would only botch the assignment, anyway, getting them all set aflame in the town square._

_“I’ll do it,” Axel stated forcefully._

_“Axel’ll do it,” Gilly added._

And thus it was decided. The Beastmen got their sacrifice, the ratmen delivered a king’s hoard of scavenged gems, and the Falkenraths became ridiculously rich. It was terrifying in the beginning, when Axel had to deliver the quarry to an assigned meeting place in the forest. When Gretchen returned from Altdorf with her new talents, it became far easier. The Skaven offered even more wealth in exchange for a direct tunnel to the Falkenrath Manor, and Gretchen assured the family that she could vouchsafe the family’s safety with her magic. It was not a difficult decision. A handful of destitute children, paupers who would never be missed, never amount to anything…Axel was doing them and their families a favor, in the end. Twenty years on, and the pact still held.

Axel led the girl through alleyways, side-streets, until they reached the home stretch to Falkenrath Manor. They made it across the main road, into the courtyard, began to ascend the steps…

“Axel!”

Axel turned to find the visiting witch hunter captain striding toward him. The man’s attitude was genial, and Gretchen had bragged of bringing him to heel the night before, but the situation was still not ideal. The little girl cowered behind Axel’s legs. Genial or no, the hunter still cut a rather imposing figure.

“And who is this?” The hunter asked.

“I saw the poor lamb languishing in filth, and thought that she may enjoy a nice meal and some treats.” Axel prided himself on his quick thinking. “It’s something I do from time to time, to give back, you see. I have been blessed with so much, and she…” He bent to stroke the girl’s greasy head, wiping his hand upon his trouser after. “She has so little.”

“A truly noble notion.” The hunter reached into his pocket and produced a gold. “Here, child. Run home to your parents. I have business I need to discuss with this kind benefactor.”

The girl goggled at the coin, more, probably, than her parents would see in weeks. The urchin snatched it quickly, and hugged it to her chest.

“Thank you, Sir,” she squeaked, and scampered off down the road.

Axel’s stomach fell. Luring the girl had taken the entire afternoon, and the offering was due that evening. He didn’t know what to do. There was no way he would find another proper child, not in time, and certainly not with this obnoxious hunter keeping tabs.

“I am pleased to have caught you,” the hunter began mildly. “I’d had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with your sister at the party, but I regretted not having had the opportunity to speak with you. Come, let us go meet with your father.” He produced a fine vintage of Bordeleaux from his jacket. “I did not get to properly thank him for his invitation last night, and I must remedy this oversight.”

Axel nodded. “Uh…yes, of course. Come in, please.”

Axel and the hunter were met by Axel’s father, white as a fish belly and skittish as a kitten. The hunter went into his spiel about the invitation, but Gilbert cut him off.

“Victor,” he babbled, waving his hands manically. “I cannot properly express my gratitude, but I fear this is a terrible time. I will gladly invite you tomorrow, but tonight it is imperative that I discuss business with my sons. We have had a major setback.” Gilbert took a deep breath and collected himself. “I’m sure you understand.”

Victor, eyebrow raised, tilted his head. “Very well! I shall see you tomorrow, then. I shall pray to Sigmar for a swift resolution to your issue.”

“That is much appreciated,” Gilbert ushered the hunter to the door, making sure to swipe the wine. “Until tomorrow.”

Once the door was sealed, locked and bolted; Gilbert dragged Axel into the parlor.

“Where the hell is the offering? In case you have forgotten, the transaction is scheduled for tonight!” Gilbert grasped Axel’s lapels and shook him.

“I _had_ one, but the hunter sent her away just now!” Axel tore himself from his father’s grasp. “What the hell was I supposed to do?”

Gilbert nodded, running his fingers through his sparse hair. “Damn it all! Right, right…we have three hours. Perhaps you can still find another, maybe get that child back.”

“I suppose we have no choice,” Axel replied. “However, we have never been remiss in the past. Perhaps they will accept an alternate exchange, in case I am unsuccessful.”

“You had better hope they will,” Gilbert replied, uncorking the wine. “Our entire fortune depends upon it.”

*

Axel scoured the streets of Senden, to no avail. No children lingered on their own, no parents dropped their guard upon his approach. He returned to the hovel where he had found the child from earlier, but both she and her family were gone. The light began to dim in the sky, and Axel frantically tore through the town, searching for any clue. He ran through the marketplace, in case any distracted parent could possibly be too involved in haggling to pay proper attention, but the square was clear, and the vendors were clearing their stalls for the night. He looked up to see the dumpy baker scrutinizing him. Axel scowled in response and moved on.

Finally, it became clear that he had lost his chance. Axel, dread and resignation weighing heavily in the pit of his stomach, trudged home.

“You have nothing???” Hysterical, Gilbert snatched a Cathayan vase from a table and hurled it to the floor. “What the hell were you doing?”

“I was searching for _anything_ ,” Axel yelled. “You think it’s so easy? You could have been scouring the streets with me instead of blubbering like a great pudding and drinking yourself blind.”

“I bet I coulda found something,” Gilly drawled, strolling into the room, glass in hand and silk robe tied loosely around his belly.

“Then you should have,” Axel spat. “Instead, you lay abed until noon dallying with the help.”

The town clock tolled seven. Gretchen peeked her blonde head into the room.

“Gentlemen, it is time,” she stated. “Wait, where’s the…”

“We don’t have it,” Gilbert grumbled, pushing past her. “Come. We need to meet with them regardless.”

The four silently made their way through the kitchen, through the passage, down the staircase, passing their hoard, and into the darkness. Gretchen waved a hand and the darkness faded, leaving a hallway. The hallway’s walls ended at the mouth of a tunnel, a passage of dirt and rock that twisted and turned into unfathomable blackness. The family Falkenrath stood and waited, jumping at every creak and squeak in the hallway, a pall of foreboding hanging heavy over them. A clattering and scrabbling echoed in the tunnel and the family reflexively drew closer together, standing stiff with terror as the din grew increasingly loud. The first thing they could discern was several sets of glittering black eyes, then the stench of unclean pelts. Creeping into the torchlight was a stooped grey ratman in filthy, tattered robes leaning upon a large gnarled staff. He was flanked by four huge armored rats with black fur, and a hulking, white-bearded Gor. They approached the family, sniffing the air and peering curiously at the humans. The Gor lurched forward, snuffling, and brayed in an annoyed sort of tone.

“He wants the offering, yes?” The grey rat hissed. “We do not see-see or smell-smell. You honor our pact, yes-yes?”

“We need another day.” Gilbert’s voice cracked. “Just one more day, and we will have what you need, I promise.”

The Gor snorted and stomped his hooves. The grey rat leaned forward until his whiskers tickled Gilbert’s cheeks. The Skaven’s nose twitched and wrinkled, and he retreated, grumbling to himself.

“Not good. Not good at all-all,” the grey rat harangued. “Our second burrow gone! Our breeder and squealers burnt! Our doomwheels broken, and my warlock dead-dead! You do this, humans???”

“Of course not!” Gilbert sputtered. “We had no idea, had we known, I never would have allowed…”

The grey rat poked Gilbert in his jiggling stomach with his staff. “You grow bored with pact, no want any more-more? You enemy now???”

“No, we are still allies, I swear! I had no idea!” Gilbert was close to tears.

“Hat men swarm woods,” the grey rat continued. “Find Gor camp! Elf-thing killed patrol!”

“That’s impossible, my spell still holds!” Gretchen exclaimed. “They could not possibly have found it!”

“Spell holds,” the grey rat explained. “They do not see. But they know. They will find, and then our pact OVER!”

“That will not happen,” Gilbert assured the rat. “We will figure out how to draw the hunters away. I swear, we had no idea. We are still your friends.”

“And now you come with hands empty!” The grey rat crowed. “No manling! Not acceptable!!!”

“If you just give us a little more time!” Gilbert pleaded. “I swear, we will have it tomorrow…”

The Gor bellowed, the walls shaking from the report.

“Man-child needed tonight!” The grey rat replied. “Gor-men do ritual! White moon dark, green moon big! Stars in right places! Must!” The rat stomped his paw. “Be!” *stomp* “Now!”

The Gor pointed at Axel, grunting in his bestial tongue. The grey rat muttered something to the armored rats, and they surged forward to seize him, their steel-clad paws clamping down, ripping into his biceps and nearly crushing his bones. After a second of utter shock, hysteria took hold. Axel thrashed and screamed, struggling uselessly in the iron grasp of the Stormvermin.

“WAIT!!!” Gilbert cried. “Dear god, what are you doing?!? I thought you needed a child!”

The Gor whuffed and snickered.

“Youngling is best, but any will do-do,” the rat translated. “You owe us, we take-take.”

“Papa!” Axel shrieked, his hands numb from the loss of circulation. “For the love of Ulric!”

“I beg of you!” Gilbert fell to his knees. “If that’s the case we can get _anyone_! Just give us an hour, we will get you someone! Please, please, just not my boy!”

“No more time.” The grey rat grinned, huge yellow incisors grinding with glee. “ _You_ can take his place…”

Gilbert grew quiet. Gilly took a step back, in case he were a second choice. Gretchen clenched her teeth, wrenching her silken-gloved hands together.

Axel wailed for mercy, at this point losing complete control of his bowels. “Papa, _please_ …”

“I’m sorry.” Gilbert burst into choking sobs. “I’m so sorry, Axel. I must keep our family afloat. God help me…”

Terror and fury fought for dominance. Axel lost all control, seeing nothing but a blinding white rage, his throat raw and tight from his shrieks as the Stormvermin dragged him into the darkness.

“Do not fail us again,” the grey rat told the sniveling Gilbert. “And you…” He pointed his staff at Gretchen. “Your spell better keep. If not, we use tunnel to take your town-town! NOW!” The grey rat shambled back toward the tunnel. “Quiet that man-thing!”

The Gor brought a club down upon Axel’s crown, and the world fell away into nothingness.

An hour later, Axel awoke to blades, flame, and nightmare.


	15. Denial and Deliberation

“You’re being really bloody secretive,” Sienna grumbled, sprawling upon the settee in the dim chamber.

“Perhaps _we_ would have liked to go to that fancy party last night!” Bardin added. “Been some time since I’ve had some proper fancy fare.”

“Thought you didn’t go in for that sort of thing, Bardin,” Markus remarked.

“I don’t, usually,” Bardin explained. “But it’s nice to remind myself why.”

“It was a feast for heretics and traitors,” Victor exclaimed. “A veritable pit of vipers! It was necessary that I infiltrate it on my own. I could not trust such a delicate operation to anyone else.”

“Pit of vipers, eh?” Sienna smirked. “From what I gather, you were up for a bit of serpentine action from the daughter…”

“How did you hear about…agh!” Victor sputtered, throwing up his hands. “I will have you know that my actions were perfectly appropriate, and that I resisted all of her pitiful attempts at seduction. A great deal of information was gleaned through that interaction, of which I am _trying_ to inform you right now. Also, where the hell is the elf?”

Sienna shrugged. “You know how she is. She comes and goes.”

Victor huffed a sigh. “Very well. There is indeed grey sorcery at work, and while we cannot be certain that the situation in the northern woods is Gretchen’s work, we _can_ be certain that _she_ is a grey wizard. She was foolish enough to cast in front of me.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sienna swung her feet to the floor and leaned forward in interest. “She _just_ met a witch hunter captain and she cast in front of him? I’m half impressed with the sheer nerve, half-horrified by the complete idiocy.”

“Great affluence coupled with a lack of repercussion can lend a sense of invincibility. Add heroic amounts of spirits and my particular mastery of deception…” Victor’s lips curved into a smirk. “Not only did she unlock doors in the Falkenrath Manor with grey magic, she personally showed me the family hoard. A room glutted to the brim with gems. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires…I do not know how the Falkenraths obtained such wealth, but I have a feeling that the answer lies at the end of the hallway in which that treasure trove sits. Unfortunately, I was unable to explore it, but I feel that if I can work on the younger brother next…”

“The _brother?_ _Those_ are some expanded horizons…” Sienna quipped, prompting the others to break into snickers.

‘I…it’s not like…it’s…” Victor stammered. “MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER, WITCH.”

“Sir,” Markus replied. “If you didn’t give her such a reaction, you know she wouldn’t tease you so much.”

“That’s not the point!” Victor grumbled. “At any rate, between the family foibles and my inside source, I shall puzzle out this mystery soon and we shall cut down this rotten family tree.”

“Sir,” Markus said tentatively. “I’m a bit confused. Isn’t our goal to be scouring the Skaven and the Beastmen from the woods?”

“Ah- of course!” Victor replied quickly. “Of course. I am certain that these goals are intertwined.”

“Fair enough.” Markus shrugged. “Whatever gets us done more quickly.”

“Fuegonasus.” Victor addressed Sienna. “Did you pass along my message?”

“How do you think I know about your romancing the Falkenrath girl?” Sienna replied coolly. “By the way, Walburga was in a right mood, so good luck with that. Kept going on about how you’ve fallen in with them, asking me if she could truly trust you. Not sure she’s even going to show up.”

“What the…she can’t…” Victor began to pace furiously, throwing up his hands. “She must show up! She has to! I’M DOING THIS ALL FOR _HER_!”

Victor stopped short, realizing what he’d just said. Markus, Sienna, and Bardin gaped at him, and then exchanged a look between each other.

“I mean…” Victor continued awkwardly. “She stands to benefit greatly from our..uh..success…”

“Oh, I’m fairly certain of what you meant, Victor.” Sienna lounged again, looking much like the cat who ate the canary.

“So, Sir…” added Markus, looking far too smug for Victor’s liking. “What were you saying before? About undivided resolves and all that?”

“This changes nothing!” Victor snapped. “The Falkenraths shall lead us to our quarry.” He stomped over to the desk and snatched a bottle of wine. “I’m going to go to the Manor now. The sooner we figure this out, the sooner we can cleanse the forest. The sooner we cleanse the forest, the sooner we can LEAVE THIS BLOODY TOWN!”

Victor charged out the door, slamming the door behind him, leaving three stunned companions in his wake.

*

Some hours later, Victor sat in that very same room, hands flat upon the desk, face still and mind busy.

_“Victor,” Gilbert babbled, waving his hands manically. “I cannot properly express my gratitude, but I fear this is a terrible time. I will gladly invite you tomorrow, but tonight it is imperative that I discuss business with my sons. We have had a major setback.” Gilbert took a deep breath and collected himself. “I’m sure you understand.”_

And what setback was that? Was it the child Victor had frightened away? Was it Victor himself? Was it actually business? Victor hated leaving a mark with more questions than answers. And then there was Walburga…

Was she going to show up? It was not in the nature of a witch hunter to wait upon someone else’s pleasure. Victor fumed quietly. Who was _she_ to judge his methods? Who was _she_ to decide that she did not trust him? Perhaps he should cancel the appointment. Perhaps he didn’t need her at all. He could solve this mystery on his own. What did the piddly information she offered matter now that he had infiltrated the family so successfully?

The town clock tolled seven. He’d told Sienna to pass along that Walburga enter the inn at the back entrance (which, of course had prompted a disgusting remark from the wizard). He should hear her approach any moment now. The seventh toll sounded, and Victor’s spine stiffened. He should leave, return to the chapterhouse, review his notes. He strained to hear any hint of footsteps. Another minute, then. Another minute, and _then_ he would go.

Victor noticed a tiny spider creep out of the mortar in the wall. He followed its progress for several minutes, studying the fine thread it spun upon the stone, the manner in which it plucked and wove the threads, the pattern of its intricate web. Victor had always been fascinated by spiders; their patience; their planning; even the tidy way that they fed, wrapped, and discarded their prey. This little fellow was very diligent, carefully attaching thread by thread…

The rap at the door nearly jolted Victor our of his seat. He stood up, ready to lecture his visitor, but found that no words came. He started for the door, then spun and paused, then made for the door again, grasping the handle but unable to turn it. Had Sienna visited Walburga since his ridiculous exclamation? _Sigmar preserve me, it’s certain that she would_ …

The visitor knocked again, and Victor chided himself. _YOU ARE A WITCH HUNTER CAPTAIN, ACT LIKE IT_. He took a deep breath, then opened the door. Walburga stood waiting, peering at him curiously.

“Was beginning to wonder…” Walburga stepped warily into the room.

“I was in the midst of planning,” Victor replied archly.

Walburga glanced at his empty desk. “Indeed.”

“Right.” Victor began to pace. “Do you have any information for me?”

“Aside from half of the local Order stumbling out at two bells, Axel screaming at Gilly, Gilly throwing Axel’s notebook in the punchbowl, Gretchen stealing away with a witch hunter for the night…” Walburga pinned him with an inscrutable look. “Oh, not _you_. I hope you weren’t feeling special. I’d say it seems she has a type, but this fellow was young and blond…”

That last spiteful little aside spoke volumes. Victor found himself smiling, nearly giddy again. An intolerable feeling, but damn if he weren’t enjoying it. “Is that so? Had anything happened between myself and the daughter, I suppose I would be _jealous_. _Jealous_ , correct? Why on earth would you want me to feel _jealous?_ ”

Victor deeply savored the blush reddening her face. She straightened up and raised her chin, her dimples flaring adorably in her cheeks.

“I don’t…I’m not…I mean…I just want to make sure you’re not compromised.” Walburga sniffed. “I just find it rather disgraceful that you would treat with that foul creature, especially knowing what I told you about her.”

“ _You_ never told me she was a grey wizard,” Victor blurted, cursing himself immediately after. Apparently that blasted giddiness was loosening his tongue.

Walburga’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me?”

“And you should know that my methods were perfectly respectable, even if it seemed otherwise to Gerta,” Victor continued. “Not that it’s any of your business, though I suppose Fuegonasus must have scampered away from our briefing this afternoon and told you what I had said.”

“I haven’t spoken to Sienna since this morning,” Walburga replied, tilting her head in a charmingly perplexed way, a fluffy curl brushing across her still-flushed forehead. “What did you say?”

Victor’s forehead suddenly felt very hot. He opened his mouth and shut it, trying to grasp for words that normally came easily to him. She parted her soft lips as if she wished to speak, but nothing emerged. He could see the reflection of the lamplight flickering in her eyes, and he could not stop staring.

Victor forced himself to snap to attention and resorted to the only course of action that came to mind. He popped out his false eye, spat upon it, and was about to rub it upon his sleeve when Walburga made an outcry.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Walburga groused, retrieving a small bottle and cloth from a pocket in her dress. “Hand that thing over!”

“Why?”

Walburga blotted the cloth with what smelled like clear spirits. “Just hand that over!” She wiped the eye thoroughly. “Is this how you normally clean it? Disgraceful, Victor! It’s a miracle you haven’t had an infection.” She handed him the bottle of spirits and the rag. “Take these, and I don’t want to hear that you’ve cleaned your eye with anything else, especially spit!” Walburga shook her head. “Tempting the Fly Lord, you are!”

“But those are yours…” Victor took the items, peering at them. “And where am I supposed to keep them?”

“I have plenty. Victor, you have about nine bloody pouches on your belt and your jacket is covered in pockets,” Walburga shoved her fists to her hips. “Pick one.”

“I…all right, then,” Victor smiled, acknowledging defeat, and Walburga relaxed her arms.

“Now…” Walburga scrutinized his empty socket. “I…” She stood there on tiptoe, an inch from his face, lost in thought. Her sugared breath warmed his skin, her fingertips brushing the lines of his cheekbones.

“You’re wondering how I lost my eye,” Victor said finally, managing not to gasp.

Walburga snapped out of her trance and handed Victor the false eye. “Suppose you should be the one to put that back in. And no, actually. I mean, yes, of course I’ve wondered, but right then I was admiring the repair. It looks as if the damage were terrible, but whoever healed you did almost seamless work. I was looking for a scar.”

“I was lucky. Then, at least.” Victor replaced the eye. “Grunburg had a little Temple of Shallya. They had in residence a squinty old priestess who was apparently a master healer. Without her aid, I am not certain I would have survived.”

“That must have been terrifying,” Walburga said quietly.

_My faith in Sigmar carried me through_. That would have been his standard response, and it was partially true. However, being so close to Walburga, the frank way she regarded him…it seemed impossible to speak anything but plainly.

“Not at first,” Victor replied. “I’d been injured before, of course, but never surprised. My entire life, I was convinced that the ratmen were a myth.” When Walburga raised her eyebrows in surprise, he smiled and continued. “Oh yes, the rumors are true. I found that when I was hunting a vampire’s thrall. I had been meticulous. You need to know that I am not a careless man. And the damn thing took me by surprise.” Victor took a deep breath. “There are times when I close my eyes…eye…and see nothing but that flash of green slicing down upon me, feel the hundreds of filthy paws scrabbling upon me... I still do not know how I survived. I must ascribe it to the will of Sigmar, as I can come up with no other explanation. The things swarmed me, I was overwhelmed, and even now it is just a blur. I honestly believed that I had tasted fresh air and seen sunlight for the final time that morning, and when I emerged from the cave I wept.”

Victor paused, shocked at himself. _Why am I telling her this?_ It seemed as if the floodgates of twenty-five years of pent-up anguish had been opened, and he could not close them again until it was spent. “But even that was not what scarred me most. Walburga, when I embarked upon that particular mission, I had been informed that I was next in line to receive my captainship. All I needed was one more accolade, and I would have been one of the youngest captains in a very long time. When I returned to Altdorf with my evidence, my injuries, my reports; I was confident that my exposing the reality of the Skaven would not only assure my promotion, but revolutionize the way the Order approached the Chaos powers.” Victor bowed his head and sighed. “They laughed at me, Walburga. And the ones who didn’t laugh were livid. One of the generals called me mad, wanted me struck from the Order altogether. My past service secured my position, but my promotion, my future was gone, along with my faith in the Order to which I had devoted my entire life.”

“Shallya’s teeth, Victor,” Walburga murmured. “I’m so sorry. How did you endure?”

Victor straightened up again. “I realized that if there were to be any change within the Order, I would have to change it from the inside. Therefore it has become my mission to be the perfect Templar, incorruptible, striking down evil where I find it and rising in the ranks by playing their game and eventually forcing them to see truth. If they will not be Sigmar’s chosen, then I must.”

If he could choose to carry one image in his head for the rest of his life, the open admiration lighting up Walburga’s lovely face just tied closely with the collapse of the Skittergate.

“Well,” Walburga breathed softly. “That is a wondrous thing, Victor. I am sorry that I doubted you.”

“I know what it is to lose trust in authority,” Victor replied, fighting the urge to stroke her cheek. “And I will ensure that you find justice, Walburga. I will bring you vengeance upon the Falkenrath family on a silver salver. I can mount their heads upon the gates, rend them limb from limb in full view of town…whatever torment you deem just, I will execute.”

Walburga blinked, shook her head as if she had just awoken. “Victor, I…I don’t want that…”

Victor frowned. “I don’t understand. Walburga, aren’t you angry? Sigmar’s fist, they have been a scourge to your entire life! Violating you, threatening you, stealing your hair, for god’s sake! I have seen that scar upon your shoulder, as well…”

“That scar wasn’t from any of them,” Walburga countered wearily. “And of course, I am angry, but I only want justice. I want them to be removed from power and never be allowed to harm anyone again. If that means execution, fine, but their agony does not change what happened to me.” She sighed. “I have no stomach for torture, Victor.”

“Typical Shallyan,” Victor spat. “It is leniency like this that allows evil to flourish. I am offering you a precious gift, Walburga, one that I do not provide lightly. Do not succumb to weakness.”

Just moments earlier she’d been gazing upon him as if he were Sigmar himself. Now, Walburga’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she glared at Victor as if she had never seen him before.

“You mistake mercy for weakness,” she hissed. “And I assure you that mercy takes far more strength than base cruelty. I am a healer, Victor. Anyone can break, anyone can tear. That is easy. Healing, repairing…that is what is difficult. Your way is not the only one.”

“My way is the one which protects soft, defenseless creatures like you,” Victor snarled. “You have not seen the things I have. Do you think Rotbloods have any notion of _mercy_?” Victor let out a barking laugh. “Do you think they would pause in the middle of sacking your town and ponder the wrongness of their actions?”

Walburga’s chin quivered, but still she stood up fiercely to counter him. “Mercy is what separates us from the Rotbloods, and every other evil thing that threatens us. Yes, we need defenders, but we cannot separate from our humanity! You think me naïve, but I have patched up so many torn witch hunters over the years. I am aware of what is out there, and I am proud to be that line between life and death, and I will _always_ choose life.”

A thought occurred to Victor, a thought that released a confused rage that had lay dormant for thirty-six years. His nostrils flared, and he stood stiffly as Walburga faced him head-on.

“Do you now, Walburga?” Victor remarked softly. “Tell me, then…why did you not save my mother?”

The room went silent. It took several seconds for the question to hit her like a brick to the chest. Walburga gasped, sobbing openly now, unable to regain her composure.

“How _dare_ you?” Tears streamed freely down Walburga’s cheeks. “I _did_ try to save her, and she wouldn’t let me. She…” Walburga threw up her arms. “You know what, Victor? I am done with you. You seem to be doing just fine with your investigation, and you certainly don’t need me. You have questions about your mother? You ask Captain Weber. You get nothing more from me.”

Walburga charged for the door, then paused, turned.

“There is a darkness in you, Victor,” she said finally, those river-green eyes rimmed with red. “You seem to mistake it for courage, but if you look closer, you will only find that it is where you are broken.”

*

Victor sat upon the sagging bed, palms pressing upon his eyes and his long fingers threaded through the short bristle of his scrubby hair. His temples pounded, and he could not will away the qualm roiling in the pit of his stomach. _He_ was right. _He_ was trying to restore justice. Why was this wretched woman being so ungrateful, and _why_ could he not dismiss her from his mind? Why did he bother with her at all?

A few minutes after Walburga had stormed out, there was a rap at Victor’s door. An apology? He wasn’t sure he was ready to forgive quite yet, but a confused part of him was desperate to see her. He would set the parameters for amends, and perhaps he would consider receiving her aid once more. Victor imagined her downcast eyes, her thick lashes sweeping her tear-stained cheeks, hands folded in supplication and a soft song of contrition falling from her lips. He leapt to the door and opened it to instead find Klaus the innkeeper.

“Uh…Sir?” Klaus started tentatively. “I apologize if I am interrupting anything, but a gentleman has just arrived and is very insistent that he speak with you.”

It took a moment for Klaus’ presence to sink in. “Ah, right. Yes. Thank you.”

Victor followed the innkeeper back to the common room, where three out of Victor’s four comrades sat chatting with a cloaked man. The man rose and slipped the hood from his cloak, nodding to Victor.

“It is good to see you, Lohner,” Victor hailed. “I am amazed to see you here so soon! I only sent the message a few days ago.”

Franz Lohner smiled. “An assist from my friends.” He gestured toward a shadowy table in the far corner of the room. Upon being acknowledged, a dark veil seemed to lift from the table, revealing a group of solemn-faced men and women, all draped in charcoal-colored robes. “I’m afraid Olesya has returned to Kislev to serve in the Tsarina’s court. However, when I explained your situation to my contacts in the Grey Order, they were very concerned and wished to investigate sooner rather than later.” Lohner spread his hands as if helpless. “So here we are.”

“Resourceful as always,” Victor replied. “I appreciate your timely response. It seems that this mission has been simple on the surface, but has proven to be positively labyrinthine underneath. Come.” Victor started for the exit. “I think we need to speak with Captain Weber.”

Upon entering the chapterhouse, Victor was met by a nervous-looking apprentice bearing a note.

_Dearest Victor,_

_I hate to ask a favor, but I need your help. It is my wish to discuss something of great importance with you, and would only do so in person, and in private, where my meaning can be plain. I shall be waiting with baited breath until I receive your response._

_Yours,_

_Gretchen_

Victor smirked. _Perfect._ Several half-formed plans began to take shape in his head, but he decided to wait to discuss them with Lohner and Johann before settling upon any particular one.

Johann opened his door to find Victor and Lohner waiting expectantly.

“Franz!” Johann grinned, squeezing the man into a fervent hug. “Sigmar’s teeth, how long has it been?”

Lohner returned the embrace with equal enthusiasm. “Marienburg, was it? At any rate, far too long. I believe we both still had full, and I must say, impressive, heads of hair at that point.”

Johann smiled wistfully. “Indeed. Though I must say that your mustache has fared particularly well.” He pulled back to better examine Lohner. “This is a breath of fresh air, I must say. Come.” Johann finally released the man, inviting Lohner and Victor into his office. “We have much to discuss. Allow me to bring you up to speed."


	16. The Trap Is Sprung, and Springs Another

Two hours later, Victor emerged from Johann’s office alone, with a solid plan, but without the information weighing heavily on his mind. To add to Victor’s impatience, Lohner and Johann had wished to continue their conversation privately, and thus dismissed Victor like a garrulous child at dinner. Victor tried not let it irk him, but wandered outside fuming nonetheless.

The streets were empty, and the sultry night air hummed with the song of crickets. The lamplight glowed upon the cobblestones. Victor meandered vaguely toward the market, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets. He stopped some distance from the bakery, transfixed by the orange light in the window. _She wouldn’t let me_. Why wouldn’t his mother have let Walburga treat her? Was it because she had been young and inexperienced, and she would have preferred the official town physician? Was it…

“There you are, One-Eye.” Victor nearly jumped out of his skin as Kerillian approached. “I never catch you with the others at the Inn.”

“And _you_ are never available when I am debriefing everyone!” Victor groused. “It would simplify matters greatly.”

“If I were, I wouldn’t have caught your sweetheart riding into the woods to chat with your fellow hunters,” Kerillian replied.

“My sweetheart…” Victor’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why on earth was Walburga in the woods?”

“Who in Kurnous’ name is Walburga?” Kerillian laughed. “The rich man’s daughter was the rider! She tried to invite the guards to a party. A credit to your men, they refused. Then she hid a few yards away and conjured some wolves to try and frighten the hunters. The wolves were good, the plan…not so much. Your men didn’t budge.” Kerillian smirked. “You _did_ know she was a Grey Mage, did you not?”

“I _did_ , thank you very much,” Victor replied dryly. “Now if only you could be present for our meetings, we could…”

“Wait, is Walburga the fat baker?” Kerillian teased. “Is that why you’re out here in the middle of the market by your lonesome? By Loren, you’re _mooning_! Oh, this is rich, I must tell Sienna!”

“I AM NOT MOON-“ Victor halted when he heard the echo of his voice sound from the walls of the surrounding buildings.

“By Sigmar, you’re as bad as the Witch,” Victor grumbled quietly. “I was patrolling, and it seems that the town is currently secure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must review my notes for tomorrow.”

“Oh, indeed, One-Eye,” Kerillian snickered. “Try not to enchant any more women along the way. You’ll have a harem by the end of the week.”

Victor stomped back toward the chapterhouse, grumbling all the while. _Fine_ , he thought _. Tomorrow is the beginning of the end_. As soon as it did, he would put as much space between him and this Sigmar-forsaken town as he possibly could.

*  


The following day, Victor sat in his usual chamber at the inn, brimful of nervous energy and excitement. He tapped his fingers in various patterns upon his desk, trying to release the nervous energy simmering in his limbs.

Victor leapt to the door upon hearing a certain light tap and opened the door, seeing no one. He felt a caress upon his shoulder, and Victor moved to make space. When he felt the hand slip around to the small of his back, he closed the door.

“I was going to ask if anyone had seen your approach,” Victor remarked. “But I suppose I have my answer.”

The air shimmered; revealing a small, grey-cloaked figure. Gretchen unclasped the cape and allowed it to slide to the floor, puddling in a silken ripple at her feet. Her gown was scandalously low-cut, slashed with lace to reveal as much of her pink flesh as possible. Her blonde mane was very carefully tousled, half-unbound to fall past her bare shoulders. She slinked over to the bed and sat, her eyes plaintive, her lips curled into a coy moue.

“I’ve been thinking about you ever since the party,” Gretchen cooed. “It’s been very hard to sleep.”

“Well,” Victor replied. “This is a lovely thing to hear. I must admit that you have been on my mind as well.”

“Have I?” Gretchen’s voice lowered, became husky. “That delights me greatly.” She paused to sigh sadly. “I have needed that lift for my spirits, as things have become very difficult. Victor, I need your help.”

“Do you, my dear?” Victor controlled the excitement in his voice. “You know that I can deny you nothing.”

“I hope that is true,” Gretchen replied. “For I have a great favor to ask. I assure you, though, that I will provide compensation adequate to what I ask of you.”

She toyed with the laces on her bodice, tugging gently enough to loosen them slightly, but not altogether.

“Please tell me. I promise that I can give you whatever you need,” Victor assured her.

“Well,” Gretchen began, “it’s just that…”

“Oh Victor, my father has asked something terrible of me.” She burst into very convincing-looking tears. “As you can see, I have certain skills. From time to time, I help my family with certain tasks, and we benefit financially. In turn, we donate to our local Orders to give back.”

“Very generous of you,” Victor replied gently. “But I cannot imagine that you could do anything too terrible to counteract such noble actions, especially as a representative of the noble Grey Order.”

“Right.” Gretchen squirmed. “And you are correct. It is not too terrible, but I still cannot speak openly of it. There is a small patch of land in the forest north of town that I have spelled. It is harmless, but at the moment Captain Weber’s men have taken notice of it and are standing guard around the area. Now, the Falkenrath family has donated several fortunes to the Senden Order alone. We only wish that our business interests be allowed to flourish undisturbed.”

“But,” Victor inquired. “Why would the Falkenraths need to conceal their business interests? Your father is an honorable man. I cannot imagine why he would hide his dealings in the forest.”

“Yes,” Gretchen replied uneasily. “And that is why I did not question why my father asked that I would enchant that area, and why I do not question why my father needs your men to move on. So, please…I beg of you.” She stood up to take Victor’s hand. “It is such a small matter, Victor…” Gretchen led him back to the bed. “And I can offer such a great reward.”

“You already have, Gretchen,” Victor grinned, raising his free hand and snapping his fingers. “I believe that counts as a confession.”

There was a rustling all about the chamber. Five grey wizards cast off their cloaks, revealing five witch hunters standing with them, including Captain Johann Weber.

“Yes,” Johann said. “It most certainly does.”

One of the grey wizards, a gimlet-eyed older woman with a ragged nest of red hair, stepped forward and pointed at Gretchen. ‘Well then, Lady von Biernbaum. I see you’ve been learning on your own.”

“Victor!” It seemed as if all of the blood drained from Gretchen’s face. She gathered her gown around her. “You ugly son of a bitch, what the hell have you done?”

“So, Magister Diebenkorn, is Lady von Biernbaum a member of your Order?” Johann asked.

“She most certainly is not!” The redhead replied. “Applied, certainly, but I decided that while she had a certain amount of talent, she lacked the discipline and, frankly, basic common sense to be accepted into our ranks.”

“You’re wrong!” Gretchen hissed. “I would have been great. I _am_ great!” She swirled her hands into circular gestures, muttering something under her breath.

Diebenkorn waved her hand, knocking Gretchen back onto the bed and shattering whatever the young woman was casting. Diebenkorn chanted something quickly, and Gretchen’s body went rigid, as if she were bound by invisible iron bands.

“Case in point,” Diebenkorn continued, gesturing to the other wizard. “We’d better get this one back to Altdorf.”

“Hold on a moment!” Johann countered. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of an investigation!”

“And you will get your information, but we will do the questioning,” Diebenkorn replied archly. “This one is of our jurisdiction and will face our justice. Do not worry, we will dismantle any sorcery she has inflicted upon this town immediately, but she is _our_ responsibility.”

Gretchen thrashed against her invisible bindings, her eyes rolling with terror and rage. She seemed to scream at the top of her lungs, the cords of her neck tense and her face nearly purple, but no sound emerged.

Johann glared at Diebenkorn. “ _Fine_. I want a full report as soon as you get it, and I want to be sure that she faces the full sentence for her crimes against this town.”

“Oh, she will,” Diebenkorn’s brown eyes glittered nastily. “We do not take kindly to illegal practitioners of our art. Come!” She snapped her fingers, and the other wizards stood at attention. “Let us find out what this creature has wrought.”

The wizards converged upon Gretchen and hauled her out of the room. Magister Diebenkorn lingered behind, turning to Victor.

“I have to thank you for this tip,” she said. “With her lack of proper training, this one could have done some real damage.”

“It is my job,” Victor replied loftily. “I only hope that you undo whatever devilry she has inflicted upon Senden, and I expect that, considering the Order did alert you to her wrongdoing, you will deliver the information we need promptly.”

“Of course, Captain.” Diebenkorn nodded patiently. “We will give you three hours before we break the illusions. Good afternoon.”

After the mages departed, Johann addressed the remaining hunters. “I hope that you are seeing the Falkenrath family with clear eyes. We cannot allow ourselves to be influenced by wealth or favor any longer. I understand that this is a difficult lesson to learn, but one that is necessary. Now.” Johann took a deep breath. “Are you ready to arrest the remaining Falkenraths?”

The hunters to a one (save Victor) paled, but agreed. Johann sent them away to execute the order.

Once they left, Johann turned to Victor. “Once that spell drops, we should have warriors available to meet whatever that uncovers.”

Victor nodded. “I believe that I and my companions will be ample defense for any creatures hiding behind that veil. I will alert them immediately.”

“Do you think that they could handle it without you?” Johann asked.

Victor mused. “They have gone on missions without me before and were successful. Yes, I suppose they will be fine. Why?”

“Victor,” Johann smiled. “Do you honestly think I would hand over Gilbert Falkenrath’s interrogation to anyone else?”

Victor could not help but grin. “Oh, I will enjoy that! Thank you, Johann.”

“Right!” Johann said briskly. “We have done excellent work today. Let us go and…”

“Johann, wait,” Victor interrupted, and Johann halted.

“Yes, Victor?”

Victor didn’t know when he would get another chance, at least not for quite a while, and the question had burrowed into his brain like a particularly invasive weevil.

“I need to know, Johann,” Victor began. “How did my mother die?”


	17. Revelations

The room somehow seemed to grow darker, chillier, all remnants of celebration for a successful sting driven out. Johann went rigid, the question draining all color and victory from his craggy face.

Johann pleaded. “Victor, this isn’t a good time.”

“Of course it’s not,” Victor countered heatedly. “But there never will be one. I need to know, and I cannot leave the question any longer.”

“I…uh…” Johann ran his fingers through his fluffy white hair. “Victor, I don’t think you really want to know the answer.”

“I have resigned myself to the notion that it must be traumatic,” Victor replied. “Sigmar’s sake, Johann, I am fifty-six years old and I have seen more horror than you can imagine. Do you honestly believe that I cannot handle it?”

“It’s not that, Victor,” Johann replied wearily. “It’s just…whatever positive memories you have of your mother…I don’t want this to color them.”

“I am not a sentimental man, Johann,” Victor stated firmly. “You should know this by now. I need to know the truth.”

Johann sighed. “Very well, but you have been warned. It is not a pleasant tale.”

“Duly noted,” Victor replied. “Tell me.”

“Right.” Johann set to pacing. “So. When you were nearing your Trials, your mother…well…you remember she was always zealous, but when we got word you were to begin them she…she sort of took it to new heights…or depths…whichever way you want to look at it. Sieglinde began raving in the street, preaching to passersby…began to badger the chapterhouse, kept demanding to know your location. When we received word of your success, she lost all sense.” Johann swallowed heavily. “She shaved her head, used one of your father’s brands to burn the comet into her forehead, and then hammered a few nails into her skull for good measure. She pounded on my door, howling, demanding to know where you were so that she could follow you on mission.”

Victor felt the room began to spin. He grasped the chair and slid into it.

“Victor, I can stop. You don’t need to know more than…”

“ _Continue_.”

Johann nodded sadly. “She began to camp out at the door of the chapterhouse, braying verse at the top of her lungs and trying to wear me down. We would have to keep alerting your father to bring her home, and the first few times it worked. After she found the flail, though, there was no use.” Johann paused to rub his temples. “As you can imagine, she didn’t take the greatest care of her injuries, and it’s very possible the nails were rusty. Walburga went to Sieglinde every day, begging to clean her wounds, and Sieglinde would chase her away every time. ‘Slattern! Slattern!’ she’d yell.” Johann shook his head ruefully. “I can still hear it in the back of my head. It was almost like the town clock tolling on the hour. ‘Slattern! Slattern!’” Johann reflexively waved his arms in imitation, then stopped himself, clearing his throat in chagrin. “We could see Sieglinde failing every day, but could do nothing to help. No one could get near her. Finally, Sieglinde fell asleep on our doorstep, and Walburga decided to try to treat her, thinking the woman weakened. As soon as Walburga’s salve touched your mother’s brand, Sieglinde awoke screaming and attacked. She smashed her flail into Walburga’s shoulder. Sieglinde was ready to cave the poor girl’s head in, when her son, just a wee lad at that point, ran up and tried to defend his mother. Had we not been there to apprehend Sieglinde, she would have destroyed the both of them. And if it weren’t for Old Lady Somner, poor Walburga probably would have lost her arm. It took five of us to subdue your mother, and then we strapped her down to a table and had Doctor Knudsen clean her wounds, but it was too late.” Johann knelt down opposite Victor, his blue eyes pleading. “Victor, I’m so sorry. That is probably what we should have done at the start, but I don’t know if she would have just gone and hammered more nails into her head. Your father did not want her thrown into a sanatorium, but…” Johann stood again. “There it is. Your mother was not well mentally. She loved you in her own sick, demented way, but…”

Victor stared blankly at the wall. He felt as if he’d been hollowed out, a shell in leather and chainmail arranged upon a chair.

“Victor?”

“And what about my father?” Victor asked quietly, his voice empty.

“That one was tragic, but mundane,” Johann replied. “Same as in the letter. He was trying to shoe a horse, got distracted, the horse was spooked by something and kicked out. It was sudden and painless. Victor, I am so…”

“Thank you,” Victor interrupted. “I will need a moment, and then I will report to the chapterhouse. Please tell my friends to supplement the guards at the appointed spot in the forest.”

“Victor, are you sure? I…”

“I will be there.” Victor’s breath was steady, his voice even. “Just give me a moment.”

“If you need to talk…” Johann hesitated, seeing Victor’s stone-faced expression. “You can always…”

“Yes, Captain.”

Johann nodded and turned for the door. “Right. I will expect you shortly.”

After Johann departed, Victor was still for a very long time, aware of the avalanche of rage and pain threatening to consume him, but distant as of yet. For the moment, he was numb, stunned, the news not unlike a strike from a Chaos Warrior. He had assumed agony and illness, but the madness…

The worst of it was that it was a madness Victor understood well. He had edged close to that line several times and had drawn back just at the brink of oblivion. Every time the Order shunned him, every scrap of evidence disbelieved, every nightmare of a ravaged town uncovered… _They are fools, they are nothing, there is only the lustration of Sigmar, and my will to serve_ … _they will see, the world will see, and they will be forced into submission_ … _I am the hammer of Sigmar and they will REPENT! REPENT!_

That sudden terror, the very same that flared the moment the rye bread touched his tongue the first day he had arrived, arose and swallowed Victor whole. He sat petrified in his chair, pulse speeding, gripping the arms of his chair…he forced himself to steady his breath and unclench his jaw, remembering what had dragged him out of this hysteria before. _Duty_. _Purpose._

_Vengeance_.

Victor stood.

Gilbert Falkenrath awaited his pleasure.

*

Victor had not had time to assess the Senden chapterhouse interrogation chambers as of yet. From what Johann had told him, theirs was among the most technologically advanced in the Empire, all thanks to the man currently restrained in it. One could slice the irony with a knife.

When Victor entered the chamber, he could appreciate the various cutting edge instruments of destruction therein. There were shiny things that whirred, hydraulic things that pummeled (Dwarven in origin, Victor supposed), racks which required no cranking. They were all well and good, but Victor was more of a traditionalist. He preferred to be a bit more hands-on, and while he did enjoy experimenting with other tools, Victor never needed anything more than a single blade to carve out whatever secrets lurking inside of the heretic before him.

_You will find that witch hunters have a certain mastery over time_ , Victor liked to say. _With this scalpel, I can stretch a minute into an eternity_.

Victor had been practically salivating over the thought of this very moment ever since he had arrived in town. Seeing Gilbert strapped to the table, though, Victor felt oddly…empty. Gilbert was particularly pathetic-looking on the slab; his fish-belly white stomach bulbous and vulnerable; his arms and legs skinny and stringy; his jowly face wan and haggard; shadowed with scrubby, threadbare stubble. Victor expected to be met with shock, terror, pleading; but received none. Gilbert looked upon the hunter resigned; relieved, even.

“So, Victor,” Gilbert rasped. “Our merry dance ends.”

“You seem unsurprised by your reversal of fortune, Gilbert,” Victor remarked, inwardly disappointed.

“Not so much unsurprised,” Gilbert breathed. “As you know, I have sinned, and sinned greatly. I suppose that for the past two days I have been subconsciously hoping for retribution.” He peered at Victor with weary, bloodshot eyes. “I deserve every scream you are going to rip from me. I only ask that you wait as I give you my confession, as I wish to give it with a mind unclouded by pain.”

_Damn._ He was taking all of the fun out of this. “Very well, Gilbert. Give me the record of your misdeeds.”

“My son…” Gilbert’s steady voice faltered, broke. “My Axel…they took him, and I let them. I could have gone in his stead, but I was a worthless coward. I would do it now, Victor! I have my courage now!” He broke into blubbering sobs. “Oh gods! Switch our places! Turn back the clock and take me instead!”

It was not the first time a suspect broke down in tears upon his table, but Victor had never allowed it to deter him before. Now, though…Victor felt no glee or satisfaction, rather the opposite. He was curiously depressed at the sight of his childhood enemy, helpless and utterly defeated before him. Victor was not pleased by this turn of events.

“Were your children involved in your criminal activities?” Victor asked tonelessly.

“Gilly never did anything too horrible, and Gretchen…Gretchen liked you, Victor, remember?” Gilbert gasped. “Please…please spare her. She has done nothing terrible, never harmed a soul.”

“By hiding a beastman camp, or worse?” Victor replied coolly. “We know of her work. We know that she is a rogue grey mage, and the Grey Order is currently dismantling everything she has wrought in this town, and they do not take kindly to pretenders…”

“Wait, what?” For the first time, Gilbert strained against his bindings. “Victor, you must stop them!”

“You expect leniency after-“

“VICTOR!” Gilbert yelled. “The town is in great peril! Gretchen’s spell is the only barrier keeping the creatures from invading Senden!”

“What?” Victor demanded. “What are you saying?”

“There is a tunnel into our cellar,” Gilbert replied urgently. “My god, Victor, stop the wizards or get every hunter to the manor, otherwise Senden is doomed.”

“Sir?” An apprentice burst into the interrogation chamber. “Um…there’s a lot…we need your help!”

“It begins…” Gilbert howled. “Oh, Sigmar preserve us, it begins!”


	18. Doom Comes to Senden

When the last witch hunter finally departed Falkenrath Manor, Gerta and the rest of the staff stood in the center of the atrium, completely at a loss.

“Guess I have to go back to Breuna,” shrugged the head chef. “Or I could head to Carroburg.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Astrid, one of the maids, wept. “This was all I had!”

“We’ll go together,” Hans, the groom, replied, taking her hand. “We’ll figure something out.”

Gerta was still stunned. On one hand, she was at a loss. She had no clue how she was going to provide for her family. On the other hand, she could not adequately describe how satisfying it was seeing Gilbert Falkenrath, her own personal monster, led away in chains. He’d looked so small, so weak. Gerta had been surprised that Gilbert hadn’t raged, fought, or run. Gilbert had answered the door, and when the hunters had explained their purpose, he simply offered his wrists and allowed himself to be led out. Gerta had been dodging Gilly’s advances in the parlor, but when they heard the commotion in the atrium, Gilly sneaked out and scampered toward the kitchens. Chef said that Gilly’d run down to the cellar, and when the hunters searched down there, they’d come up with nothing. _Strange_.

Things had been odd for the past two days, though. Axel had disappeared, which was a bit of a relief (he seemed to enjoy picking apart any meal he received or scrutinizing the help as they worked), but his absence seemed to have left the rest of the family in a stupor. Gilbert had retired to his study to drink himself paralytic, refusing all food or regular drink. Gretchen had retired to her room, and had only arisen just this afternoon, dressed to the nines. Gerta couldn’t imagine where she could go in Senden that would merit such effort, but…who knows? Gretchen was like that. Gilly was a mess, until today, when he apparently decided he needed a bit of physical comfort. Gerta never would have ever imagined that the day would lead to their arrests. How would Hilda cope with this situation? What was going to become of her? Did she even know?

“Hilda…” Gerta murmured to herself.

Gerta grabbed her skirts and charged up the stairs, bursting into the Falkenrath master bedroom. She found Hilda standing upon a chair, gently placing her head into a makeshift noose fashioned from a curtain pull.

“Hilda, no!” Gerta cried, rushing over to her mistress and grasping her legs to steady her. “You get down right this second!”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” sobbed Hilda. “Everything’s been confiscated, my husband is a disgrace, my child will be an outcast. My parents won’t want me back! There is nothing left for me…”

“Get…down…” Gerta struggled with Hilda as her mistress continued to attempt to place her head inside the noose. “Stop it, Hilda, you have _me_! I won’t let you starve, I won’t let anyone be cruel, I’ll figure something out. Just…GET…DOWN!”

Hilda finally relented, gently stepping down from the chair and sagging down upon it. “Gerta, I can’t drag you into this. What if they decide to arrest me? And then _you,_ since you are my friend?”

“Hilda,” Gerta reasoned, taking Hilda’s face in her hands. “If they were going to arrest you, they would have done so. You never leave this room. We all would testify to that. I think you’re going to be all right. Come…” Gerta pressed a kiss to her lips and took Hilda’s hand to draw her up. “You can go downstairs now! Let’s get you some food while we can, and then we’ll see what we can do after. As my gran always says, everything’s clearer with a full belly.”

Hilda nodded numbly and followed Gerta without question. Gerta took her to the dining room, sat her down, and went to the kitchen to scavenge. She returned with bread and cheese, and they quietly sat and ate. _Miss ‘Burga always knows what to do_ , Gerta mused. _We’ll go visit her, and then…_

Gerta’s thoughts were interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream from down below, a scream from what sounded like a man being rent asunder, and then the scrabbling of countless claws. Gerta had no idea what that was, but she knew she did not want to be anywhere near it. She grabbed Hilda’s hand and yanked her to her feet.

“What’s going on?” Hilda demanded.

“Don’t know, don’t wanna find out,” Gerta replied, pulling Hilda along. “Come on!”

The pair charged out into the atrium, where the rest of the help stood in confusion.

“What the hell…”

“Did you hear…”

“Was that…”

As soon as Gerta and Hilda reached the front door, the kitchen door burst open. Three huge rat…man… _things_ emerged, chittering and shrieking in delight. Chaos reigned, the rat-things pouring out of the kitchen and wreaking havoc. Gerta saw several leap upon the chef, breaking her out of her shock. She pulled Hilda out the door, running haphazardly down the street.

“GUARDS!” Gerta howled. “GUARDS! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!”

People stopped, but did not act, only stared at the maid dragging the heavily pregnant madame through the roads. Hilda kept up as best as she could, but her stamina was limited. After several blocks, Hilda stumbled to her knees.

“Gerta,” Hilda panted. “I’m holding you back, you need to go.”

“The hell I will! Get to your feet!” Gerta ordered. “Come on!”

Hilda struggled back up, and Gerta slung an arm around her.

“Where are we going?” Hilda asked.

“Chapterhouse,” Gerta replied. “Maybe they can handle these things.”

*

There was a strange buzzing in the distance, a buzz that very quickly grew to a roar. Oswald Krause looked up from his work to see half of the town running, fleeing… _what?_ Oswald left his forge to see what the matter was.

“Rats!” The tanner howled. “The end comes! Run! RUN!!!”

 _The hell?_ Oswald charged against the flow of the crowd, seeing a line of guards, up toward the market. Past the chapterhouse a line of guards and witch hunters made a barrier, fighting against…what the hell were _those?_ It was as if Oswald had awoken into a nightmare. The line held… _just_ , but the flood of ratmen and beastmen was too many for them to contain the onslaught. _Berthe, Lina, Hermann_ …what was he going to do with his family?

Oswald immediately began to think of defensible buildings. The town hall seemed the obvious choice, stone, sturdy, not easily burned…but shouldn’t the burgher be directing things?

“Oswald!” His mother came running up to him.

“What the hell is going on?” Oswald demanded. “Where’s the burgher?”

“Arrested, and behind this, I assume,” Walburga replied. “We need to get everyone organized, because this chaos benefits no one. We can’t outrun these things. We have to defend ourselves.”

“Or die trying,” Oswald replied faintly, watching the hunters battle the horde.

“DON’T SAY THAT!” Walburga grasped his apron. “ _We have to defend ourselves_. Get everyone organized…”

“Get them to the town hall, seal the exits, create a barricade,” Oswald muttered.

“Make room for the wounded,” his mother added. “I’m going to need a staging area.”

Oswald nodded. “Right, right…all right, c’mon, Mum! Get to the…”

“I’ll be there, but I have to get my kit. Go!” Walburga ordered. “You can do this, Oswald. Get Berthe and the kids safe, and then get the rest of the town.”

Walburga kissed his cheek, and Oswald was suddenly buoyed with an inner glow, a strength and confidence that drove out all fear that threatened to stumble him. Oswald charged back to the fleeing mob, purpose singing through his veins. 

“EVERYONE! TO THE TOWN HALL!” Oswald’s voice, normally mild and genial, carried with a force that shook the surrounding walls.

The crowd stopped, still terrified, but desperate for guidance.

“THOSE OF YOU WILLING TO FIGHT FOR OUR TOWN, GO TO MY SMITHY AND TAKE WHATEVER WEAPONS YOU SEE FIT,” Oswald called. “EVERYONE ELSE, TO THE TOWN HALL NOW! WE WILL NOT ALLOW THESE THINGS TO SUBDUE US!”

Many of the mob broke off to the smithy; and the rest, while still fearful, seemed to lose their hysteria. They began to quickly file toward the hall. Oswald ran back to his home to collect his family. _Get them, get to the hall, get everyone organized_. Oswald took a deep breath. They could do this.

*

Kirstin could smell fire. She quickly assessed her farm, and while the sheep were spooked and hiding in their pens, she couldn’t find any sign of a flame. It didn’t smell close, anyway, it…

She looked down the road, and gasped. A tower of black smoke dominated Senden. Kirstin couldn’t tell its origin, but it didn’t matter. That much smoke meant a good part of the town was burning.

Kirstin hopped on her horse and rode into the woods. She wasn’t quite sure where Markus and his party were, but if she made enough noise she may be able to alert them. She prayed it would not be too late.

*

Sunlight began to dim, and yet still the line held. _Barely_. The grey-robed wizards were able to trick the creatures from time to time, but they were weakening by the minute. They seemed to be holding off the spells of a ragged-looking grey rat carried on a palanquin, shrieking green lightning into being and shooting it in frustration at the buildings when it could not hit the guardians. Walburga could see Victor and Captain Weber shouting orders to the men, Victor charging forward from time to time to slay many of the creatures himself. It was far too easy to get lost in watching him; such a weirdly, hypnotically graceful man, the blur of his rapier glinting in the firelight in swirling arcs, the spray of black blood cascading over the squealing creatures. It was as if his limbs were spring-loaded.

The scream of a felled hunter brought Walburga back to reality, and she ran forward to drag the man from the fray. Her biceps and back were screaming, she’d been doing this for hours. She’d set up a system: pull the wounded from the battle, stop the bleeding as best as she could, leave them for the men coming to and from the town hall to collect. It was working well thus far, but the injured were becoming far more frequent as the hunters and guardsmen wearied. Some of the ratmen threw fire, and half the town looked to be aflame. Walburga could see out of the corner of her eye that her bakery was now burning, and for a second she quailed. Walburga quickly pushed her grief aside and charged back into the breach. There was nothing to be done for the bakery, but everything to be done for the gouged woman who had just fallen. Walburga pulled her back, same as before, same as everyone, but this one…she seemed to be the last straw. Walburga’s back finally gave out and she slumped forward as reinforcements retrieved the hunter.

Walburga growled in frustration and pain. She couldn’t stop now. The only other decent healer in town was Doctor Knudsen, and he had his hands full back at the hall. Fingers digging into the dirt, Walburga looked up at the line, still struggling, still persisting, Victor leaping forward and slicing, howling a prayer to Sigmar for aid. It seemed to knock the things back, and the Senden line pushed forward. Not a bad idea. It was a long shot, but Walburga was desperate.

 _Shallya_ , she prayed, long-held tears finally escaping. _Make me the instrument of your mercy, help me defend these people. I am but one old, weak soul, but I would do your work. I beg of you, do not abandon us now_.

Walburga took a deep breath, and the pain in her back subsided to manageable levels. She rose to her feet, her fingers tingling. A guard caught an arrow in the shoulder. She ran to him.

 _Over and over_. Walburga was not sure if it had been fifteen minutes or five hours, but she shouted with joy when a familiar horn sounded on the horizon. A light, much like a large torch, approached from the northern road. As the light grew closer, she could see that the torch was actually a woman, Sienna, accompanied by Markus, Bardin, the elf, and a company of witch hunters. Walburga could not help but watch in awe. Sienna sent a gout of fire to fry scores of the creatures, Bardin sent them flying with his outsize Warhammer, the elf (Kerillian, she thought her name was) peppered the grey rat with arrows, and Markus charged through the enemy like a steam engine. Victor had not been exaggerating when he had boasted of companions’ prowess. Walburga had never seen anything like them. When Victor spied his friends joining the fray, he cried out with elation and pushed through what was left of the ratmen to join his comrades. They worked in coordination beautifully: Bardin and Markus pushing groups of the creature into Sienna’s line of fire, Kerillian leaping with otherworldly speed to cut down stragglers, Victor sniping the armored ones so that they fell in a pile before the rats could even land a hit. The ratmen tried to retreat, only to be cut down by the accompanying witch hunters. When the palanquin collapsed, they fell upon the grey rat as one.

Senden burned, but the battle was over.


	19. Rubble and Rapture

The battle was over, but Senden burned.

When the final Skaven squealed its last, there was no time for celebration. The warriors scattered in search of water, buckets, anything to douse the flames raging through the town. Johann cried for the water pump, and several of the guards and hunters departed to find it.

“Now that the Skaven danger is passed,” Johann called. “We need every able-bodied person to help fight this fire! Somebody alert the town hall!”

In the chaos, Victor spotted Walburga standing still, firelight reflecting on her face. Blood streaked her clothes, her scarf had been lost at some point and her hair wreathed all around her, sticking out at all angles in a tangled, matted mess. She stood watching her bakery, her home, consumed by inferno. One of the townspeople tugged on her sleeve, breaking her out of her trance, and she followed them back (to the town hall, Victor supposed). Victor grabbed a pail in order to start dousing the flames, but as soon as he grasped the handle, the roof caved in, the walls collapsing.

The sheer number of ratman corpses made mobility difficult. They clogged the streets in festering piles, the stench enough to cow anyone in the vicinity. The townspeople dragged as many of the things into alleyways to clear a path, and the guards pushed the water pump through the passage. Victor himself kept the pail and joined a water line, monotonously passing buckets to and fro, eradicating the fires little by little.

It was the work of hours. By the time they finished, the town clock (miraculously unharmed) tolled twelve bells. In the darkness, the damage to the town could not be accurately assessed, and, at any rate, everyone was thoroughly drained. What was immediately known: most of the northern side of town was routed, the buildings reduced to smoking timbers. The formerly majestic Falkenrath Manor was now nothing more than a grandiose pile of rubble. The southern neighborhoods were mostly untouched, thanks to the chapterhouse line (the chapterhouse itself, amazingly, escaped destruction as well: clearly a sign of Sigmar’s favor). All in all, Victor was relieved to have been able to actually be actively present in the defense of a town, rather than arriving just after its annihilation. That it was Senden resonated within him far more than he cared to admit.

The lucky ones filed back to their homes. The unluckier ones, dazed, made their way to the town hall, or were invited to stay with their friends or families in the southside. As the townspeople lurched away, Victor noticed Johann slumped against the chapterhouse wall.

“Sir!” he cried reflexively, rushing to his erstwhile mentor’s side.

Johann weakly waved his hand. “I’m fine, Victor. Just…exhausted. Not exactly accustomed to massive battles these days.”

“Come on,” Victor slung an arm around Johann and supported him as they trudged back into the chapterhouse.

As soon as they reached the threshold, several apprentices appeared to aid the Captain, and Johann swatted them (as well as Victor) away.

“I can walk, I can walk,” he chuckled. “I’m not so far gone.” Johann summoned everyone within earshot to listen. “I cannot say how proud of you I am. We have never encountered a threat like this, and from now on it is our aim to ensure that it never returns. We have much work to do tomorrow, but, for now, we must rest. That includes you, Victor.” He poked Victor’s shoulder. “You’re no spring chicken either! Do not overextend yourself. You should make for your chamber without delay.”

Victor smiled, clapping Johann’s shoulder. “I will, I promise, but first I must check on my companions. Rest well, Sir.”

Johann nodded, accepted a cane, and hobbled off to his rooms. Victor made his way out, nervy with exhaustion and adrenaline. The weather was absurdly beautiful, pleasantly warm, a fresh breeze driving the stench of the dead rats northward, the sky deep and clear and dotted with crystalline stars. There was a strange energy vibrating in the air, some folk standing and taking in the aftermath, some wandering aimlessly, everyone seemingly torn between relief and victory and devastation. An older guard burst into song, a traditional Sigmarite battle ballad; and the rest joined in, sending their proof of survival drifting to the heavens. Victor approached the bakery, or what had been the bakery. It was a total loss, nothing more than a heap of blackened timbers and stones. Victor shook his head and headed to the town hall, adding his voice to the song carrying along the market square.

Victor could hear the groans of the wounded even before he entered the hall. The room was as organized as it could be, but it was still little better than a charnel house. Oswald ordered those able to continually clean the blood and viscera from the floor. Doctor Knudsen wandered among the rows of wounded. Karin, Walburga’s assistant, offered wet rags for their brows, as well as cleaning and patching the more minor wounds. Walburga herself looked as if she’d just arisen from a battle, clutching a gore-drenched saw and a severed arm. She made her way over to a bucket of steaming water and dumped the saw into it, then stared dazedly at the arm, apparently unsure how to dispose of it.

“Captain!” Oswald approached Victor, relief clear on his tired features. “Mum needs to rest. That was the last surgery, and I made her promise to stop. From what Doctor Knudsen says, he and Karin can manage. She’s clear wiped out, but she won’t listen to me. Maybe she’ll heed you.”

Walburga gently placed the arm into a corner with discarded rags and tools. When she stood, she swayed in place, pressing her bloodied fingers to her temples.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Victor replied.

“Um…” Oswald furrowed his brow. “You wouldn’t happen to know the state of the bakery, would you?”

Victor shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid there was no saving it.”

“Damn.” Oswald swore. “Poor Mum. The smithy’s a bit cramped, but we’ll find some space for her.”

“Do not worry about that,” Victor assured him. “I have commandeered a room at the inn for as long as she needs it. Do not worry.”

“Commandeered? But I know Klaus needs the coin, Sir, his mum…”

“And he will get it,” Victor replied. “I owe Walburga that much and more. She may have many worries right now, but I will make damn sure that funding is not among them. We will rebuild the bakery, bigger and better than ever before, I swear it!”

Oswald looked as if he were to weep with joy. “That’s right generous, Sir. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“There is no need. I owe her a great debt, and I will see it repaid,” Victor replied, glancing around the room at the survivors, the townspeople hard at work looking after the wounded, the newly homeless further back curled under scavenged blankets. “You have done righteous work today. This town could have been a chaotic mess, Oswald, but you have helped keep it intact. That is no small thing.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Oswald smiled.

Victor wove his way through the lines of injured to Walburga. She looked up blankly at him, barely registering his presence.

“Come on, Walburga,” Victor said gently. “It’s time to stop.”

“But…”

“The others have everything in hand,” Victor told her, extending his hand. “Come now. You’re no good exhausted.”

Walburga paused. After a few moments, she nodded in a bewildered sort of way. Walburga took his hand and allowed herself to be led outside.

It seemed that Klaus had opened up the dining room, offering free food to the ravenous residents. Victor grabbed a loaf of bread in passing, and guided Walburga to his chamber. Victor requested a bucket of warm water and soap, and Klaus, noticing Walburga’s bloodied and bedraggled state, assented without remark. Walburga shed her overdress and washed her hands and face, then slumped down into a chair, her eyes empty.

“I owe you an apology,” she said finally, her voice hollow.

“You owe me nothing, Walburga,” Victor assured her.

“No…” She covered her face in her hands. “There are at least fifty of us dead. If I’d killed Gilbert ages ago, this never would have…”

“If you’d killed Gilbert ages ago,” Victor interrupted. “The town could have been taken completely unprepared and vulnerable. If Johann had been paying attention, this may not have happened. If the local militia hadn’t been swayed by Gilbert’s influence, things could have been different…but we will never know for sure. Dealing with “if’s” and “shoulds” helps no one. Walburga…” Victor lifted her chin. “You have performed marvelously this day.”

“No, I…” Walburga wearily shook her head.

“There are dozens alive in that town hall thanks to you.” Victor knelt, grasping her shoulders

“And the town still _exists_ thanks to you and your friends,” Walburga finally met his eye, tears streaking her still face. “I spoke so harshly to you…”

“Walburga, I saw you out there. You were…”

Victor remembered it vividly, even in the pandemonium of the battle. She would dart into the skirmish, no regard for her own safety, dragging the wounded from harm. Again and again she would return, at one point Victor swearing he could spy a subtle white nimbus around her as she worked, arrows and shot whizzing by her head as she charged on undeterred with no weapon, no shield, no armor. At one point she’d been knocked down by a clan rat, and she had kicked it back into a hunter’s blade and proceeded to continue retrieving a wounded guard. It was madness, it was bravery, it was…

“Magnificent.” Victor wiped the tears from her cheeks with calloused thumbs. “My old mentor Konstanze always told me to befriend Shallyans. ‘Crazy bastards will take ten arrows for you and still keep patchin’.’ I never quite grasped that until today.”

“She sounds like a wise woman,” Walburga smiled wetly. “Victor…I really did try to save your mother…”

“I know,” Victor replied, still stroking her face. It seemed he could not stop. “Johann… _Captain Weber_ told me everything. By Sigmar, I cannot apologize enough to you. What I said was…”

“Perhaps we should just put that terrible argument to rest,” Walburga replied. “I am ashamed of how I spoke to you, especially after seeing how you threw yourself into those… _things_ …”

“You were right, though,” Victor murmured. “And you should know by now that I am not a man who easily admits error. You were right about everything…”

His hand had cupped her cheek, and she leaned into it with a soft sigh, nudging against him like a friendly cat. Victor trailed his fingertips along the curve of her other cheek, gliding back thread into her hair. She regarded him with eyes half-lidded, leaning forward…

A rap at the door jarred them both, and they bashfully broke apart. Victor rather grumpily answered the door to find Klaus peering suspiciously at him, bearing two steaming bowls of mutton stew.

“Oswald wanted me to make sure that Walburga has a hot meal,” Klaus told him, trying to peek into the room.

Walburga rose stiffly and made her way to the door, taking one of the bowls. “That’s very sweet of you, Klaus.”

“Just making sure you’re all right, Miss ‘Burga,” Klaus said, side-eying Victor.

“Perfectly fine, Klaus,” Walburga grinned. “Thank you.”

Apparently satisfied, Klaus shut the door and departed. Walburga chuckled.

“Oswald’s best friend,” Walburga explained as Victor frowned. “I suppose I should be grateful that they’re so protective.”

“Indeed,” Victor replied.

The savory aroma of the stew made Victor realize that he hadn’t eaten since that morning. Walburga must have had a similar revelation, as she immediately set to wolfing hers down. He did the same, splitting his loaf of crusty bread with her and not stopping until there was nary a crumb left. Walburga laughed sheepishly, brushing the crumbs from her chin.

“Guess we needed that,” she giggled.

Victor nodded, rising and reluctantly heading for the door. “Well, I think you need to rest. I suppose I should return to the chapterhouse…”

“ _No_.”

Victor heard a loud clatter behind him, and turned to find that Walburga had dropped her bowl. She scrabbled on the floor to gather the shards. Victor leaned down to help her, and found her hands shaking. Victor took them and squeezed gently.

“I just…” Walburga breathed. “I can’t stand the thought of being alone right now. I beg you…you can take the bed…I don’t think I can sleep, anyway…”

“As if I would allow that,” Victor replied. “I can sleep on the floor, it is nothing I haven’t done before.”

“Thank you.” Walburga squeezed his hands back. “I just…I can’t…”

“I will stay,” Victor assured her. “But you must try to sleep. Come now, Walburga, we both need strength for the days to come.”

Walburga nodded, sitting down upon the bed. “I feel drained, utterly. But I don’t know if I can ever sleep again.”

“The best way, I have found,” Victor replied. “Is to find a distraction. I would usually review my notes, or write in my journal.”

“I know,” Walburga smiled, scooting back to lean against the wall. “You can tell me which of Captain Weber’s tales of you is true.”

Victor removed his many layers until he was down to his linen shirt and trousers. Normally, he would have had a bit more decorum, but Walburga didn’t seem offended and he was too weary for propriety.

“I can certainly do that,” He smiled, setting his hat upon the desk.

Walburga patted the spot next to her. _Who am I to demur?_ Victor thought, giddy with exhaustion. He settled himself beside her, stretching his long legs until his feet dangled awkwardly off the edge.

“Fiend of Slaanesh?” Walburga asked.

“True,” Victor replied proudly.

“Really?” Walburga sounded impressed. “What did it look like?”

“Purple…tentacles…a disturbing amount of nipples…”

“Nipples?” Walburga shuddered. “And what is a disturbing amount?”

“I lost count, but I must admit that I am disturbed by any more than two,” Victor grinned.

Walburga chuckled. “Fair enough. All right, Beastman shamen?”

“A couple of those,” Victor replied.

Walburga yawned, and Victor felt the lovely weight of her head upon him. She shifted, adjusted, trying to find a comfortable rest upon his bony shoulder. The comforting heat of her body began to allow sleepiness to settle in.

“Liche priest?” she asked, her voice thick and drowsy.

“Yes, but I had help.” Victor absently stroked her hair. “That one…” *yawn* “Took weeks to prepare…several cults…”

They slumped back onto the pillow, Walburga’s cheek upon his breast.

“Well done…” she murmured, and they drifted off, unable to hold off the exhaustion any longer.

*

_Warm_. The first coherent thought to enter Victor’s muzzy head. He was gloriously warm, a lovely, soft weight curled around him. Comfort, contentment…these were qualities Victor had ever scorned and avoided. A true witch hunter was never comfortable. Relaxation was a luxury he could ill afford, relaxation invited vulnerability, but…this seemed _right_. He hadn’t felt this rested in decades.

 _Wait_ …

Victor opened his eye, alarmed, realizing why he was so cozy and warm. Walburga’s breath stirred against his throat, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her arm thrown haphazardly across his chest, and her thigh pressed to his. Through the thin fabrics of their tunics, Victor could not ignore the weight of a full, heavy breast upon his arm. He froze, panicking, his eye searching for a blanket to obscure himself. Victor’s arm twitched, and Walburga stirred, murmuring something into his throat, her hot breath and the shift of her leg exacerbating his painfully awkward situation.

“Mmm…” Walburga’s hand bunched into the fabric of Victor’s tunic, and then she also froze. Walburga sat up sharply, and Victor took the opportunity to pool the blanket at the foot of the bed into his lap.

“Oh…” Walburga sputtered. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”

“It’s fine,” Victor replied, avoiding her eye and locating his various armors across the room. “I should…uh…right.”

Victor stood, and every swing and lunge and parry from the previous day crashed down upon him. He gasped and winced, clutching his back and sitting back down.

“Are you all right?” Walburga demanded.

“Fine,” Victor grunted. “Just reminded that I don’t bounce back from a battle the way I did thirty years ago.”

“Wait…” Walburga swung her legs over and hooked her toe on the hem of her overdress puddled upon the floor. Apparently as sore as Victor, she grimaced as she pulled the dress to her. She reached into a pocket, retrieved a little pot, and removed the lid. A sharp, spiced scent wafted to Victor’s nose, and he saw Walburga scoop a bit of the amber-colored salve from it.

“May I?” she asked shyly.

Victor nodded, not entirely sure to what he was agreeing. Walburga rubbed her hands together, lifted his tunic, and firmly circled her thumbs into the base of his neck. Victor wasn’t sure if it were Walburga’s clever hands or her special liniment, but his tense muscles seemed to melt at her touch. He groaned aloud, arching his spine, unable to help himself. Walburga expertly kneaded a path down his back, splaying her fingers along his shoulders, then taking her time to work her way downward. He was nearly limp against her when her thumbs found the rigid, corded muscles where his back met his waist, the pleasure and pain of her soothing his aching muscles nearly driving him to the brink.

“Is this helping?” Walburga asked, fingers still busy upon him.

“Y-yes…” Victor managed to rasp. “B-but you must stop.”

“Why, if it is helping?”

“Walburga,” Victor panted, trembling. “You test my resolve. If you continue, I am not sure I can control my actions.”

Walburga circled around to face him, her expression unreadable.

“ _And what would you do, Victor?_ ”

The question hung in the air between them charged, electric. Her eyes were wide, wild, fierce. Victor had never been in this place, never allowed anyone to get this close, to caress his bare flesh so intimately. What would he do? Walburga licked her soft lips, and his will broke. He plunged his hand into her hair and pulled her to him, desperate to taste her. His mouth met hers clumsily but fervently, and she clutched him with equal hunger, running her hands from his back to his quivering stomach, gliding her fingers over his mottled, scarred flesh. He grasped her, threw her back upon the bed, and she tugged at his linen shirt. He pulled the tunic from his torso and lifted her gown, feasting his eye upon the creamy, voluptuous form beneath. Walburga, looking rather startled at her own actions, doffed the gown and tossed it to the floor, and then lay back, the tangle of her dark gold waves upon the pillow framing her face like the rays of the sun.

Victor had never before had any inclination to share his body with anyone else. It had been a terrifying notion. The only women (and few misguided men) who would approach him did so with motives sinister and avaricious, and it was clear to him from his youth that no regular soul would want him as he was. He had made sure of that himself. The thought of compromising himself had always been abhorrent. He had become particularly adept at sublimating any physical urges into melee, or interrogation, or prayer. It had been better that way, keeping himself pure, safe, his mind clear and purpose unmuddled. Victor was above such base vulgarity, and coupling was for commoners. _And yet_ …

They moved like waves crashing upon a silken shore _._ Perhaps he should be questioning it, perhaps he was weak, and perhaps he was just beyond caring. It didn’t matter. The sensations consuming him felt nothing short of holy, nothing but _light_ and _soft_ and _warm. Was this always so intense?_ Walburga gasped, and his world was engulfed in supernova, bursting apart into countless shimmering fragments.

 _Perhaps it’s a Shallyan thing,_ Victor mused, his last coherent thought before he sank into blissful oblivion.


	20. Justice Served

“Did I…did I harm you in any way?”

Walburga nuzzled into Victor’s throat, tracing her finger along a particularly nasty scar arcing from his shoulder to his solar plexus. “Well, if you’re worried about getting me with child, there is no need. _That_ ship sailed a few years ago.”

“No,” Victor murmured bashfully. “I mean, did I _physically_ harm you at any point? You cried out several times, and I probably should have stopped, but I was not in my right mind in that moment…”

Walburga guffawed, then caught herself, realization dawning on her. He looked upon her with such open sincerity and worry that she couldn’t help but kiss him.

“No, Victor,” she assured him gently, stroking his shoulder. “Those were very happy sounds. If you’d been hurting me I would have let you know.”

Walburga could see sunlight slanting in through the closed window shutters, and her body told her that the morning was old. She burrowed her face deeper into Victor’s neck, though, unwilling to face the outside world just yet. He pressed his lips to the top of her shaggy head ( _Brave man, there_ , she thought to herself). She squeezed him closer, but gingerly, half-worried that she would crush his bones. He was so painfully gaunt. She would have to make sure he ate properly today. He seemed the type who would forget his meals. After a time, he shifted, lifting her chin with a wry smile.

“We should get up,” Victor said softly.

“One more minute.” Walburga buried her face into his chest.

“But…”

“Victor, this is the most content and happy I have been since…” Walburga admitted. “Well, I can’t remember the last time. Once I step outside of this room, I will have to be the woman who has lost her every earthly possession and gained a hall full of people who need aid. Just…one more minute.”

“Very well.” Victor pulled her against him, and Walburga was shocked (for the second time in so many hours) at how strong his grip could be for such a skinny frame.

They luxuriated for just a moment until they were roused by a frantic knock at the door. “Miss ‘Burga! Miss ‘Burga!”

Victor huffed a sigh, threw on his trousers and tunic with a ridiculous speed, and opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

“Oh…oh god…” Walburga could hear Gerta stammering on the other side of the threshold. “I am so sorry, Sir, I thought that Miss ‘Burga was in this…”

“I’m here, Gerta,” Walburga called, throwing on her underdress. “What do you need?”

“Oh! Ohhhh…I…uhh…” It took a few moments for Gerta to collect herself. “Right! It’s Hilda! I think it’s her time!”

“How long has she been at it?” Walburga demanded. “How far apart are her pains?”

“Just a few minutes,” Gerta said. “She said she was feeling them for some time, but with everything going on didn’t want to bother anyone.”

“Shallya’s feathery arse! I’ll be there in a moment,” Walburga replied gruffly. “Boil some water, have clean rags and blankets ready.”

Gerta departed, and Walburga pulled on her overdress, grimacing at its state. The filthy thing was caked with old blood and other fluids she preferred not to consider. Crestfallen, Walburga dropped it, realizing she would have to go out in her underdress.

“Should probably burn that thing,” she sighed grimly, sliding on her shoes. “To go along with everything else.”

“Walburga,” Victor said softly. “We will get it all back. I swear it.”

“Thank you, Victor.” Walburga paused, smiling wistfully. “I hope to see you later.”

“I…uh… _wait_...” Victor dithered in the middle of the room looking mildly distraught, then roughly pulled her in for a deep, frantic kiss. When he released her, he looked just as dazed as she must have. “Good luck.”

Walburga stumbled giddily out of the chamber, unable to leave the inn without a silly grin lighting up her face. She knew that grin would fade as soon as she stepped outside, and she knew that mountains of grueling tasks lay ahead. It was going to be an arduous, heartbreaking day, undoubtedly, but whatever awaited her, she would meet it.

*

Victor was happy to find his comrades in the dining room (and surprised to find that Kerillian deigned to attend), refusing to allow any sheepishness show upon his face. He was in a damn good mood, considering the mess outside, and was not about to let anyone destroy it. Not even Sienna, who was looking far too smug for his liking. A server quickly brought over a steaming bowl of porridge, and Victor quickly inhaled it.

“So he finally emerges from the bedroom,” Sienna grinned. “We were wondering if you two were ever going to come out! Have to admit, I'm impressed! I can't say I ever would have guessed I'd ever see a lady leave your chamber in naught but her underdress and a dizzy grin. Well done, you!" Sienna clapped his back, and, such was his mood, Victor allowed it. "Though what did you do to that poor woman’s gown so that she had to go out in her underthings?”

“T'was her enduring toil treating the wounded last night had left her proper gown, _the only gown she has left_ , I’ll have you know; too soiled for her for her to treat patients in.” Victor sent a piercing glare Sienna’s way. “Especially when she’s apparently going to deliver a baby at this moment.”

Sienna opened her mouth, then shut it. “Damn. Can’t do anything with that.” She tapped her chin. “And that undergown on her back is the only clothing she has left, isn’t it? It’s just going to get destroyed as soon as she walks into the town hall. She’ll have naught but her skin by the end of the day.” Sienna’s smirk returned. “Bet you’ll enjoy that.”

Victor ignored the jab. “Did the tailor escape damage?”

Sienna glanced over at Klaus. “I’ll ask him. _He’s_ the one who knows everything. Walburga’s like a second mum to him, I’m sure he could have something sent here.”

Victor nodded. “Good. I’ll tell him to add it to my tab.”

“So what do we do now?” Bardin asked.

“Tell me what you found in the forest yesterday,” Victor asked.

When the spell had dropped, a massive beastman camp was revealed. A great battle ensued, but after several hours the Ubersreik Four (with the aid of their company of witch hunters) were able to cleanse every last Gor and Minotaur from the face of the Empire. At the center of this camp was a huge altar, upon which they found what was left of the unfortunate Axel Falkenrath. As Sienna burned the remnants of the heretical filth, Markus could hear Kirstin calling for help…

“…And then we joined you lot,” Markus finished. “What a mess.”

“Have to say,” Bardin added. “It was nice to get to a town _before_ it’s razed for once!”

“It is indeed.” Victor smiled. “Well, I believe that we shall have to explore the tunnel to ensure that the threat has been vanquished. Beyond that…I suppose that you are all on your own time. Lohner is staying at the chapterhouse, I believe, so if you wish to seek other missions, he can most likely provide.”

“Wait, what?” Sienna’s eyebrows raised. “ _Done?_ What about you? Are you retiring?”

“Not quite,” Victor replied. “It seems I _am_ here to stay, though.”

*

Clearing the debris from the former Falkenrath Manor took the better part of the morning. Once secured, the Ubersreik Five, along with a party of able-bodied witch hunters, were able to descend into the basement. The bunker full of jewels glittered in the blackened stone, the entire company marveling at the hoard.

“The contents of this chamber to be confiscated by the Order,” Victor announced, much to everyone’s dismay, including his own. He longed to scoop an armful into his sack to shower them upon Walburga’s supine form later on, but protocol was protocol.

Upon reaching the mouth of the cave, they discovered a particularly grisly scene. Dried blood and viscera coated the walls, limbs scattered, and discarded upon the dusty floor lay the head of Gilbert Falkenrath II.

“It seems both sons met a sticky end,” Victor observed. “Fair enough. One fewer execution.”

It seemed that the vast majority of the resident Skaven had been lost attacking the town the night before. They made short work of the ones left over, scoured the dens, found yet another breeder and (before Victor could prevent Sienna from doing so) broiled it and its slimy brood. Senden had been fairly lucky, it seemed that this burrow had not been nearly as organized or advanced as Clan Fester, southern den notwithstanding. They had found a few more barely-started doomwheels, but that seemed to be the extent of it. When Victor was satisfied that they had explored every crevice, destroyed every diabolical device, slain every pathetic ratman; the group followed the main tunnel through and emerged back into the late afternoon sun. The tunnel had led to a patch in the forest, unsurprisingly, the center of the beastman camp. Victor did a cursory sweep of the pyromancer-charred premises, and then the group wearily headed back to Senden.

The townspeople had not been idle in their absence. Oswald was personally organizing the town cleanup, designating various crews to haul away the ratman remains, the useless rubble, and search parties for the fallen folk. Already a great deal of progress had been made. The Skaven had been piled just outside of town, along with much of the rubble and timber. The market was already almost back to working order, and what was left of the bakery had been cleared to its foundations.

“Damn,” Sienna muttered. “That is a damn shame. I’m already missing those cinnamon biscuits.”

It seemed that the workers were winding down, but there was a buzz of energy permeating the square, despite their fatigued demeanors. Johann called to Victor from the threshold of the chapterhouse, who jogged over to the elder captain.

“How are you feeling, Sir?” Victor asked.

“Back to ‘Sir,’ are we?” Johann chuckled, leaning on his cane. “You know that is unnecessary now. I am as well as can be expected. Before I can release you to supper, I need to inform you of our plans tonight. It has been decided.”

*

The entire town of Senden, at least, the ones who could walk; filed out to the village limits when the clock sounded seven bells. The mood was at once solemn and angry, a simmer, a mutter carrying along the line. Victor watched the folk, one by one, striding and toddling and hobbling all; assemble around the massive heaps of Skaven and detritus. There were two recent additions to the giant mound, the reason for this impromptu gathering.

Normally these ceremonies were conducted in the town square, however, it seemed fitting to hold it here. Victor appreciated the economy of the arrangement. Gilbert and Gretchen Falkenrath were each strapped to thick beams in the midst of the devastation they had instigated, rotting rats and ruined buildings all around them. Gilbert faced his fate with a surprising stoicism, or perhaps it was simply exhausted resignation. Gretchen, on the other hand, screeched, cursed, tried to bargain; her raves met by the stony faces of a ravaged town. The grey wizards, after having fought alongside the residents of Senden, found it apt to allow them to enforce justice upon this rogue witch themselves, and Victor could _just_ spy a few of them subtly fading in and out of view among the townsfolk. As the last rays of sunlight faded over the horizon, Johann stepped over and nodded to Victor, who approached the crowd, raising his hand for silence.

“We are here to witness the judgment upon these traitors to the Empire.” Victor’s sharp voice carried all along the ruined buildings and sloping hills of the edge of town. “Gilbert Falkenrath and Lady Gretchen von Biernbaum, you have been convicted of high treason, consorting with agents of Chaos, illegal sorcery, and…” Victor’s eye fell upon Walburga in the crowd. “Many other crimes and abuses of authority. Lady von Biernbaum…” Victor turned to face the now bedraggled Gretchen. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Gretchen let loose a string of obscenities, screeching at the top of her lungs until one of the grey wizards silenced her with a gesture.

“Gilbert Falkenrath,” Victor now addressed the erstwhile burgher. “Have _you_ anything to say for yourself?”

“I deserve this fate and welcome it!” Gilbert exclaimed, gazing at the sky, perhaps, for forgiveness. “My only regret is that I have dragged my children into this terrible scheme.”

Victor had come close to pitying Gilbert in the interrogation room, but, after the destruction left in the wake of this pathetic man’s greed, the hunter felt only disgust. The mob grew costive at this response, and a few stones whizzed by Gilbert’s head.

“That is your _only_ regret?” Victor sneered. “Fair enough. People of Senden! Witness the wages of sin before you, and keep with Sigmar’s doctrine! There is no victory for heresy, only grim death!”

Victor stepped away from the pyre, and nodded to Sienna. The bright wizard sent a fireball to set the mound aflame, and Senden watched as the engineers of its peril screamed and roasted along with the Skaven the Falkenraths had allowed into the town. Victor made his way over to Walburga, who watched, unblinking, her expression unreadable.

“Are you all right, Walburga?” Victor asked. “How do you feel?”

“They were always invincible titans to me,” Walburga said, her voice hollow. “But look how frail, how pitiful, how pathetic. It is so strange.”

“Come,” Victor took her trembling hand and squeezed it. “Let us get back to the inn. I have not eaten, and I’m guessing you haven’t either. It has been a very long day. Let us celebrate its end.”


	21. Epilogue

The next day, Johann officially announced Victor as his replacement. The transition was executed swiftly, and Victor found himself slipping into the role far more easily than he had expected. Sienna teased that it was perfect for him, as now he could legitimately “boss everyone around all day,” but he did enjoy organizing the younger hunters and creating a stricter chapterhouse environment, one in which they would learn to appreciate simpler fare and a more demanding schedule. _Oh Konstanze_ , he often thought. _What I wouldn’t give for your advice_. He found himself smoking a particular tobacco at those times, trying to conjure her wasp-witted presence, looking for inspiration. Victor often consulted his journals to find his schedule from his apprenticing days. It seemed effective enough. There was grumbling, of course, but the grumblers would immediately be sent on rebuilding duty to remind them of the perils of complacency.

_However_ …

Victor was acutely aware of what he would have considered the height of hypocrisy, before he had returned to Senden, at least. It was an odd paradox. Victor was settling in, becoming comfortable, and, worse, becoming comfortable with one person in particular. Every day Victor met with his companions for dinner at the inn, including Walburga. Every night he retired with her in their usual chamber there. After their second night together, it simply seemed implied. He would rant about the various frustrations of his day, muse about how to streamline their chapter, improve their fighting techniques. Walburga would listen patiently, saying little, and oftentimes Victor would find solutions far more quickly than if he were poring over his texts alone by candlelight. After he said his piece, Walburga would describe her day, how certain patients bore injuries like missing limbs stoically and certain others demanded milk of the poppy for sprained fingers. How proud she was of Jens Schumann for his determination after losing his arm (“ _Practices relentlessly, demanding nothing less than perfection with his remaining arm. Reminds me a bit of a certain someone I know_ …”), and of Hilda, who, despite having recently given birth, would aid in dressing wounds and comforting the grieving (“ _Great promise in that one, there is! Her and Gerta…one tends to the little one while the other aids the patients. I think she’s found her calling…”)._ Victor found he rather enjoyed the telling, her gesticulations and imitations, her turn of phrase, the way her lovely face would light up when mentioning her successes, and even her frustration and anguish when meeting a setback. Empathy had always been an alien concept to Victor, but sitting near her, holding her to him when she was upset…it was such a small gesture, and yet there was such satisfaction to be gained from it. Victor told himself that he was gaining a wide net of contacts and information about the townspeople, that this was an essential aspect of his position; but if he had to be honest…he simply enjoyed being with Walburga. His days ended joyously (and sometimes started that way, if there were time), and he had never slept so well in his life. There was something to be said for a decent night’s rest, for he found that he recovered far more quickly from his daily exertions, went through his day energetic and prepared, found himself less snappish and foul-tempered. _It is all so pathetically domestic_ , he would chide himself, but he no longer cared. Perhaps he was getting old.

The local Order flourished in this time, though, as did Senden. Through a remarkable turn of phrase and bureaucratic genius, Johann had somehow convinced the home office to allow them to keep a third of the Falkenrath hoard. This was more than enough to fund the rebuilding of the town, and to reward those who had performed with particular courage and tenacity during the onslaught.

Due to his quick thinking, hard work, and pragmatic authority, Oswald Krause was elected Burgher uncontested. To concentrate on his new duties, Oswald reluctantly relinquished the smithy to a transplant from Bruena. From time to time, though, Oswald could be found helping out (and advising) the new smith; as forging swords apparently could be a welcome break from forging policy.

A new hospital took over the abandoned building opposite the chapterhouse, Doctor Knudsen and Walburga collaborating to create a state-of the-art facility combining an herbalist’s expertise with a lab worthy of the Altdorf Guild of Physicians. Taking a bit of pressure from the two known healers were Hilda Meier (now having rejected her despised married name) and Gerta Schuster, the pair gathering instruction from both the Shallyan healer and the traditional Guild doctor. Victor followed through on his promise to reward Gerta for her information, and the former housemaid used her funds to buy the apartments above the hospital for herself and Hilda, where they raised Hilda’s little girl, Friede. Victor once expressed concern that their situation did not seem conducive to securing a husband or traditional home, and Walburga had waved him off. _“Why on earth would they want that, Victor, after everything? I think they’ve had enough of men for a lifetime. They’re excellent healers, leave them be.”_ It was fair enough. They were chaste and pious, and allowed Walburga a bit more breathing room and free time, for which Victor was very grateful.

Walburga herself used her stipend to rebuild upon the ashes of her bakery, an edifice not too much larger than the previous incarnation, but of stone, fire-resistant. She _did_ invest in a massive new oven, a wall of drawers (and a trip to Altdorf for exotic ingredients to fill them), and an additional assistant; doubling her production and enabling her to produce a wider and more creative range of sweet-smelling delights. Its proximity to the hospital was another convenience, as Walburga could easily pop out and treat a patient, now able to leave the shop (and Karin) in good hands.

The construction of the bakery had been a matter of months, and Victor found himself rather dismayed when it was finished. The chamber in the inn had become a sanctuary of sorts, and, despite Victor’s scorn for sentimentality, he had grown rather attached to it. When Walburga had announced that she would no longer need it, he had been shocked at the panic that flared inside of him. He had told himself that it was for the best, that their arrangement had been a distraction, that he would better devote his time to his duties, but…when Walburga had invited him for supper at her new home, he had assented before his mind could catch pace with his tongue. Victor had responded even more quickly when Walburga invited him to stay the night, and the fact that her bed had been (otherwise needlessly) constructed to accommodate a person of uncommon height had not been lost on him. Even when Johann returned to Altdorf to accompany Franz Lohner, the lavish Captain’s Suite in the chapterhouse went unused, save for visiting dignitaries. If any of the hunters had an issue with the arrangement, it went unsaid. It was not as if Victor were difficult to find, as the bakery was only a few yards from the chapterhouse anyway.

Time passed, and the Ubersreik Five each found their purposes. Bardin had departed after about a month in Senden after Lohner had sent him a lead about Karak Zorn. Kerillian decided to accompany him, her motives a mystery as usual, but expressing interest in aiding the ranger in her own distant manner. Sienna was now a free agent but returned to Senden often; she’d grown rather attached to the town (especially the handsome innkeeper therein), and had become fast friends with Walburga.

_“Don’t let that one go, Saltzpyre,” she said roguishly before departing for Marienburg. “You’re almost bearable to be around now.”_

As it turned out, though, Victor was not the only one of the Ubersreik Five to extend roots into Senden. Upon the death of the previous Guard Captain in the battle, the local militia were at a loss. Considering their haphazard and, frankly, corrupted leadership over the past few decades; an honest and valiant presence was necessary. Victor could imagine no other man for the job.

_“Oh, I’d be honored, Sir!” Markus still insisted upon formality, despite the fact that he was no longer in Victor’s employ. “Much as I love farm life, it’d be nice to train up a good group of likely lads. Must admit I miss that life.”_

_“Does that mean you will be moving into the barracks?”_

_“I…uh…is that necessary? Because I would prefer not to.” Markus bashfully rubbed the back of his neck. “Y’see, I do like staying with Kirstin, and she seems to like havin’ me around…”_

And it was thus that Victor Saltzpyre, a little over five months after arriving in his hometown, found himself standing in a town square festooned with flowers, garlands, and pumpkins, bearing witness to a priest of Taal and Rhya joining Markus Kruber and Kirstin Vogel in holy matrimony. Victor would have much preferred a good, honest Sigmarite ceremony, but at least they were having their union recognized. It made him realize how he had not done the same with Walburga, and began to feel rather self-conscious about that oversight. He glanced down at Walburga, radiant in a new gown, flowers woven into her fluffy waves. She beamed at the happy couple, her hands clasped excitedly in front of her heart.

“Oh, but they are a lovely couple, aren’t they, Victor? I knew it the first time I saw them together…”

Much as it annoyed him, Victor had to agree. The bride and groom were a vision in green, wreathed in oak-leaf and acorn garlands both; Markus dashing and true, Kirstin graceful and adoring. They looked much like an illustration Victor had seen on a Count’s tapestry in Talabheim once. He was half-surprised that squirrels and deer were not in their retinue, and that birds were not swooping down to alight upon their shoulders. As soon as the priest declared the pair as one, the crowd roared with approval and the revel began. Musicians struck up a merry reel, the townfolk danced in jubilation, Sienna captivated the children as she conjured fire rabbits and hounds to caper in the air around her.

“Come, Victor.” Walburga tugged at Victor’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

He had not softened quite _that_ much. “That I cannot grant, my dear, but I will be happy to watch you.”

And he was. He watched Walburga spin and twirl with the rest of them, her sandy curls cascading all around her, her colorful skirts rippling, a ringing laugh rising from her like music.

Happiness, like sadness, was not an emotion that was useful to a witch hunter. Contentment promoted laxness, divided loyalties, but…Victor found that it also created a purpose. It gave him something to defend, protect. He would spend the rest of his life ensuring that these moments continued, that Senden would always have reason to celebrate. _That the woman before him would always have reason to smile_. Tomorrow, he would be back to his daily routine, ensuring that the next generation of templars were ready to defend places, _people_ like this. Perhaps he would not be a Grand Theogonist, or even a general, but he could still change things. His chapter knew what lurked in the tunnels underneath cities, and Victor would guarantee that, at the very least, scores of hunters who passed through his tutelage would leave fully prepared to face the Skaven menace, prepared to root it out in every corner of the Empire they could reach. In just five months, his life had taken a very different turn from the grim path he had set himself upon when he left this place forty-five years past. Sometimes Victor wondered if this were for good or for ill.

The song ended, and there was a brief pause before the band launched the next. Walburga turned to Victor, her cheeks rosy, her wild mane in exquisite disarray. She skipped over to him, her enchanting face alight with joy, her fingers interweaving with his. Plans formed, solidified.

_There were worse fates._


End file.
